







3 






4 

‘ <*♦ 







































































» 






I 


THe Balance of Power 







i i 


Now she returned to the edge o f the 

(See page (50) 







.Gs* 


Copyright, 1906 , by 

THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY 


Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London, England 


All rights reserved 


Third Edition 
Twelfth Thousand 


BY TRANSFER 

DEC 1 8 1909: 



THE OUTING PRESS 
DEPOSIT, N. Y. 




fflp Jfatfjer 


WHO HAS ALWAYS BEEN, AS WELL 
MY FRIEND AND COMRADE 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I 

The Garden of Memories . 

. 

1 

II 

The President Blacks His Own Shoes 


. 13 

III 

“If Ye Git Hot Under the Collar, 
Off” . ’ 

Take 

It 

. 29 

IV 

The Enthusiasms of Jimmy O’Rourke 


. 50 

V 

The Drowning of a Disappointment . 


. 66 

VI 

At Mr. Hardy’s ..... 


. 88 

VII 

The Beginnings of a Cabinet . 


. 105 

VIII 

Independence Day .... 


. 122 

IX 

The Colonel Makes a Speech . 


. 142 

X 

A Three-cornered Fight . 


. 155 

XI 

An Unexpected Conference 


. 175 

XII 

Later in the Evening 


. 193 

XIII 

Miss Hardy Goes Calling . 


. 209 

XIV 

The Colonel Loses His Temper 


. 223 

XV 

The Summons ..... 


. 242 

XVI 

The Appearance of Mr. Conlin 


. 264 

XVII 

To Drive Dull Care Away 


. 280 

XVIII 

A Drive to Westbury 


. 308 

XIX 

The Brick Block Loses a Tenant 


. 329 

XX 

The Colonel Reasons with Mr. Tubb 


. 342 

XXI 

In the Old Garden .... 


. 366 

XXII 

Thanksgiving Day .... 


. 395 



ILLUSTRATIONS 


‘Now she returned to the edge of the cliff ” . Frontispiece 

FACING 

PAGE 

“The President of the United States blacks his own 

shoes’” 16 

“Run along now, Jack, and boss your machines, but don’t 

try to boss me’ ” 76 

‘The Colonel makes a speech” 148 

* T stole ’em,’ he said at last” 284 

“You’re morbid,’ was all she said” 318 

‘With an exclamation of triumph Heffler held up the 

wrinkled piece of paper” 338 



THE BALANCE OF POWER 


CHAPTER I 

THE GARDEN OF MEMORIES 

T HE settlers of Hampstead, Connecticut, stopped 
half way up the red-soiled incline which sepa- 
rates beyond into two broad summits. The 
town grew up the rest of the way, unsatisfied until it 
reached the top, first of West Hill and later of the lower 
East Hill. The factories took the only place left, the 
lower half of the incline at the bottom of which runs 
Hampstead River, deep and narrow, evidently planned 
to furnish power for mill-wheels. 

High on the summit of West Hill, where even in the 
early eighties the factory owners and officers and the pro- 
fessional people lived and looked down upon the workers 
in the shops whose frame houses dotted thickly the east- 
ern summit, were two houses side by side, of which the 
owners were proud and the rest of the town envious. 
One was built of irregular gray stone, square and strong; 
over its front and sides crept thick ivy which turned a 
wonderful red in the autumn; before it spread a broad 
trim lawn shaded with big trees and bordered with a high 
hedge, and behind it stretched terrace after terrace of 
orchard and garden. The other was obviously new, an 

1 


2 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


expensive mongrel structure of brownstone, brick and 
wood, culminating in a tower which was the wonder of 
the town. The ground which ran from the porch to the 
street was spotted with new grass and old turf, and the 
short yard at the back was still in straggling confusion. 

Many people came to the stone house daily, for Doctor 
Gilbert lived there — quick, nervous, kindly Doctor Gilbert 
whom the well-to-do respected and liked and the poorer 
people loved. Wealthy as he was — for his father had left 
him not only the big gray house and broad acres of land 
but a considerable fortune as well, made in trade with the 
West Indies — there was never a sick child so far away, nor 
a night so cold, nor a simple kindness so slight that the 
Doctor was not ready at the call for help. Impractical 
fine gentleman of the old school! Many a sick German 
woman in a cottage on East Hill had slept for the first 
time in a week of nights while the big man hummed Schu- 
bert songs in his mellow baritone; many a miserable little 
Irish lad chilled in a shanty, the cracks of which yawned 
invitation to snow and winter cold, bolted bitter medicine 
so as to hear the merry gentleman tell stories of the 
Civil War or of that strange and wonderful court of King 
Arthur; many an ailing clerk or bookkeeper laughed him- 
self well at the Doctor’s quaint wit, and poverty-bound 
fathers blessed him with tears in their eyes as they watched 
their children eating unexpected Christmas dinners. 

He was as tender as a woman, and yet strong men had 
hung their heads before the tempest of his anger. As a 
young man he had seen visions, some of which he had 
realized and many of which he had forgotten. Now he 
dreamed dreams. They were all about a boy with tawny 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 3 


locks who often sat wide eyed on a hassock before the 
big fireplace in the library listening to the rambling 
reminiscences of bluff Colonel Mead, who had fought 
Indians on the plains, or to the Doctor’s own stories, 
perennially new. He planned the boy’s future a dozen 
times every day, and when his wife with characteristic 
Scotch practicality started him awake with a short bit of 
worldly common-sense, he only smiled and went back to 
his dreaming. 

Neighbors saw little in the boy to account for the 
Doctor’s pride. He was a gawky lad, tall for his age, and 
his large nose and ears and chin forbade even the Doctor 
to call him handsome. And yet, when he smiled there 
was something about the gray eyes and the twist of the 
mouth that wholly satisfied those who loved him. He had 
a queer little mind that would focus itself to only one 
thing at a time and which would not listen to anything 
else until this one thing was settled conclusively. 

“ Ef ye want a thing, no matter what it is,” the Colonel 
once remarked approvingly of the boy’s persistence, 
“ ye’ve got to go after it an’ stay after it till ye git it. 
Jack’s got the right idea. Jest wantin’ never brought 
anythin’, so far ez I know, but want.” 

Mr. Hardy, the man who had built the house next 
door, was a man of early middle age. His father had 
started the now famous mills of Hardy & Son, when 
Hardy after a hurried schooling had joined him. Much 
of their success had been due to the younger man who by 
strict economy and relentless energy had built up the 
factories to their present size, the largest in Hampstead. 
Although he was now president of the company, Hardy’s 


4 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


front door opened punctually every morning at half-past 
seven and closed behind him at quarter-past six at night, 
a phenomenon which interested greatly the mathematical 
mind of the Doctor’s boy. 

The Hardys had occupied their new home only two or 
three days on an afternoon when the Doctor’s boy was 
playing croquet on the second terrace. All at once the 
boy instinctively straightened himself from a regrettable 
“ flinch” and turned slowly about. The delightful sense 
of being alone with his little dream world had for some 
reason vanished. 

Standing in a narrow gap in the hedge, surrounded by 
the fresh green, was a strange little figure of a girl and, 
behind her, a boy somewhat larger than Jack. 

“ Hello, boy,” said the girl. 

“ Hello,” said Jack cordially, after a moment’s inspec- 
tion of the pair. “Come on in.” The girl advanced 
slowly and shyly, hugging a small decapitated doll. The 
boy with her marched briskly forward and then, suddenly, 
with a proud wave of his hand, he stood on his head for 
a few seconds, by way of introduction. 

The girl meanwhile had propped her headless doll on a 
seat that surrounded a broad-trunked apple tree, and 
looked about her. The place was a fairy land to her and 
she sighed with delight. She looked with awe at the boy 
who lived and who actually played croquet in the midst 
of all this wonder. 

“Can I look at the roses?” she asked, pointing to the 
rows of bushes beyond. 

“Of course,” said Jack readily. “And I’ll show ’ 
to you.” 


em 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 5 


“Oh, come on/’ said the strange boy. “Fll wrestle 
you or Fll beat you to the fence and back or ” 

“We’ll do that afterwards,” Jack’s tone was decisive, 
“after we see the flowers,” and he started after the 
girl. 

“Oh, you’re afraid, you are,” taunted the other boy. 
“Look at this,” and he turned two or three handsprings 
on the grass. To the evident joy of the flushed lad, the 
girl turned from the roses in time to see the last rapid 
turn. Jack watched quietly, his fists doubling convul- 
sively. Then he followed the girl. “You’d better come 
along,” he called over his shoulder. And the boy reluc- 
tantly followed, turning cartwheels and handsprings on 
the way. Jack led them past tangled masses of roses, 
beds of vari-colored pansies and arbors of honeysuckle, 
and, beyond a sentinel apple tree, through the lanes of a 
small produce garden. Back of this truck garden was a 
line of trees and bushes that surrounded a little clearing, 
in the midst of which was a frame summer-house, and to 
this they finally came and sat down. The little girl had 
not said a word, and she sat still for a moment. 

“I’d like to live here,” she said at last enviously. 

“ Oh, I know lots of better places,” the strange boy re- 
marked quickly, looking jealously from one to the other. 

Jack glowered silently. Then he turned to the girl with 
a new interest. 

“ So do I. I’d like to go out West. Say,” he went on, 
suddenly growing alert, “do you know Colonel Mead? 
He’s fought real Indians.” 

The strange boy noticed that the girl was watching 
Jack with open admiration. 


6 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ Colonel Mead?” he broke in sullenly, eager for trouble. 
“ He’s an awful old liar anyhow. I heard ” 

Jack’s face suddenly turned white and his gray eyes 
burned black. His small fists doubled up and he jumped 
to his feet. 

“You take that back,” he cried. 

“I won’t,” said the large boy, dodging out on the turf 
and pulling off his coat. Almost before he was ready 
Jack was on him like a pent-up hurricane, and they were 
fighting furiously. For a moment the girl watched them, 
fascinated. Then she jumped up quickly and ran out of 
the summer-house past the clinching, fighting, panting 
pair, and straight down the path they had come. 

Mrs. Gilbert was sitting placidly sewing in the library 
when Ellen opened the door and let in a slender, sobbing, 
breathless little figure. 

“Well, well,” ejaculated motherly Mrs. Gilbert, “ what- 
ever is the matter with the lassie? ” and she put her sew- 
ing quickly aside. 

“Oh, come quick, please,” panted the girl; “your little 
boy and Willie McNish are fighting out in your garden. 
I lost my way and I’m afraid they’ll both be killed and — 
and Willie’s the biggest.” 

Mrs. Gilbert was a large but very active woman. Almost 
before the girl knew it they were down the long stairs that 
led to the garden, and were hurrying along the shortest 
path to the summer-house. By the time they passed 
the roses the tired girl was lagging far behind. When 
Mrs. Gilbert reached the edge of the little clearing she 
stopped suddenly. There before her was Jack, one eye 
already swollen, helping the other boy to his feet and 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 7 


wiping the blood from his nose and from a nasty cut in 
his cheek. Mrs. Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief and 
waited. 

“Pm awfully sorry,” said Jack, and his little form was 
trembling with reaction. “I shouldn’t have hit you here 
in our yard, but you made me mad.” 

The other boy nodded, then he put out his hand. “ Say,” 
he said, “I thought you were a sissy, but you aren’t. 
You’re all right.” And they shook hands manfully. 

At this point Mrs. Gilbert, seeing the little girl coming, 
broke in. “ Laddie,” she said, coming upon them ab- 
ruptly, “I’ll take Willie to the house and stop that 
wretched bleeding, and you take the little girl to her 
home.” 

That was all she said, except to thank the little girl and 
to ask her to come and see her. But on the way to the 
house she asked the McNish boy about it in her kindly 
way, and the boy told her frankly everything. Mean- 
while the girl and Jack, one eye already turning black, 
followed them down the path. 

The girl rescued her doll from the bench and they went 
on to the hole in the hedge. 

“ My name’s Clare, and I live in here.” She pointed to 
the new Hardy house. 

“My name’s Jack,” said the boy. 

“I like your yard,” said the girl judicially, “but your 
house isn’t as nice as ours. Good-by.” 

That night when Jack had gone to bed early with a 
bandage over his ugly black eye, the Doctor and Mrs. 
Gilbert sat in the library. The Doctor’s eyes seemed 
fixed on an old and favorite copy of Horace, and his 


8 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


wife’s seemed to be unraveling some of the tangles of 
yarn she was knitting. Now and then each glanced 
furtively at the other and then quickly back to book 
and task. At last their eyes met and each stood dis- 
covered. Mrs. Gilbert shook her head at him with a 
merry twinkle in her eye. 

“There must be a deal of reading on that one page, 
David,” she said. “You’ve been reading it for an hour 
or more.” 

“I thought you were asleep, you worked so slowly,” 
laughed the Doctor. 

“Well,” said his wife after a moment. 

“Tell me all about it again,” said the Doctor capitu- 
lating. 

So she told the story of the fight over again for the 
third time, losing not one detail. 

“The other lad’s a good one, too,” she said at the end, 
with a characteristic sense of justice. 

“The only thing Jack said to me,” said the Doctor 
proudly, “ was that he’d do it again, and that McNish’s 
boy fought well. He’s got a Gilbert temper.” 

“It may have been a Gilbert temper but they were 
Mackenzie blows he struck,” said his wife. “I saw the 
other boy’s face.” 

“I believe you’re proud of it,” laughed the Doctor. 

“I’m glad you haven’t spoiled him yet,” retorted his 
wife. 

“You’re a great and good woman, Janie,” said the 
Doctor. “I’m going to give him money and education 
enough to make him rich and famous.” 

“ But who’ll make him happy?” asked his wife wistfully. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 9 


The Doctor rose to his feet and went around the table 
to her. He kissed her brow reverently. 

“To have such a mother is sufficient, dear,” he said. 

As time went on the three children grew more and more 
inseparable. Genial Mr. McNish soon came almost as 
often as did Billy, and many an evening during the win- 
ter that followed, when patients would let him, the 
Doctor played cards till bedtime with McNish and the 
Colonel. Mrs. Gilbert alternated her time between the 
home and the church, busy always. The two boys and 
the girl studied and played happily enough. Clare’s 
nurse was their only menace. One day when the girl had 
been rudely summoned away from the garden, the two 
boys followed her belligerently to the gap in the hedge. 

“We’ll take care of her when we grow up,” said Jack 
sternly, holding out his hand. 

“You bet we will,” said Billy, shaking the hand 
solemnly. 

The usual number of people were sick and needed the 
Doctor, and yet things seemed somehow different with 
him. He had a new habit of always getting a New York 
paper as early as possible, and spending an hour or more 
poring over it. He grew absent-minded and occasionally 
seemed almost depressed. No one had ever heard him 
sigh until that winter, but when Mrs. Gilbert rallied him 
about it he laughed his old laugh and said that it was a 
sigh of sheer joy. Nevertheless he aged rapidly, month 
by month, and sometimes sat strangely silent through 
whole evenings before the library fire. But he was never 
more thoughtful of his wife nor more tender with Jack. 
One night when the Spring was coming on and he sat by 


10 THE BALANCE OF POWER 

the window with the boy, watching the rivulets from the 
melting snow that ran down the garden paths, he patted 
Jack lightly on the back. 

“When you grow up you’ll be a big man,” he said, 
“and you’ll take good care of the mither, eh, Jack?” 

“I’ll help you, of course,” said Jack slowly, “but you 
see I’ve promised Billy I’d help him take care of Clare.” 

“ When Jack is a big man,” laughed Mrs. Gilbert, who 
had come up behind them, “you and I, David, will be 
old enough to take care of ourselves, and he’ll go out into 
the big world.” 

“Out in the big world,” said Jack wistfully. “I’d 
like to go out in the big world.” 

“And after he got there,” went on Mrs. Gilbert softly, 
“he’d come back again because he’d want love more than 
anything in the big world.” 

“And isn’t there love in the big world?” asked the boy 
wonderingly. 

“Not the same sort of love, laddie,” said his mother; 
and Jack looked from his mother to his father and back 
again, and nearly understood. 

When Decoration Day came the Doctor put on his 
G. A. R. badge and tramped down town with Mr. Mc- 
Nish. 

“The Spring’s going to put you to rights,” said his 
friend, as he thought he noticed that the Doctor’s step 
was lighter and that his cheeks had more color. “ You’ve 
been a bit down this Winter, just as Tom Nelson always 
was just before a battle. He was always all right when 
the fight began.” 

“ I’m all right,” said the Doctor. “ To tell you the truth 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


11 


I've been worried. Pve been trying to make money 
this year to lay up for the boy, and Fm afraid ” 

McNish stopped suddenly. There was real pain in his 
face. He waited. 

“Pve lost a good deal in stocks during the winter,” 
went on the Doctor, “and Pve been trying to win it back 
in a mine out in Colorado, but Fm afraid — Fm not much 
of a business man, Donald.” 

A band in the distance started up “Tenting To-night 
on the Old Camp Ground,” and memories suddenly 
flooded the minds and hearts of both men. The old 
familiar strains thrilled them silent, and they locked arms 
and walked on hurriedly down the street. They were 
late, but they stopped for mail at the post-office and then 
rushed on, crowding the letters into their pockets. As 
they fell into line, for the Doctor insisted on marching 
with the rest, McNish said, putting his hand on the Doc- 
tor’s shoulder, “You must tell me all about it to-night,” 
and the Doctor nodded. 

Mrs. Gilbert and Jack watched them march by, and 
Jack and the Doctor saluted solemnly. Ten minutes 
later Doctor Gilbert left the line to stop at a house oppo- 
site the gate of the cemetery, where a child was sick. The 
little girl had not been sleeping and he gave her some 
medicine. He decided to wait a few minutes to see how 
it operated and, because the mother had left the room, he 
pulled out his letters. He started to read; suddenly his 
face went white, and without a murmur his big form 
relaxed and he sank to the floor. 

Over in the cemetery a bugle played “taps” for the 
weary soldiers who were tenting on the old camp ground. 


12 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“The Doctor's big, tender heart,” said Moriarty, Har- 
dy’s superintendent, that night, “had been working so 
hard all his life that it plumb gave out.” 

That afternoon a boy and a girl were sitting looking out 
at the gathering twilight from a rear window of the Hardy 
house. Jack had been taken over there to get him out 
of the way of it all. 

“Let’s go out in the garden,” he said at last, and to- 
gether they stole out and through the gap in the hedge. 
There were lights upstairs in the stone house, but below 
a single dim glimmer in the library. 

“God’s bigger out here,” he said in an awed voice. 

The little girl put her hand over his. 

“It’s getting dark and I’m afraid,” she said. 

“So’m I — a little,” admitted the boy. Then suddenly 
a new thought came to him. “ If father was here I think 
he’d tell me to take care of the mither,” he said impul- 
sively, and with that he started for the house. The girl 
watched him for a moment and then sped toward the gap 
in the hedge. From there she saw him mount the steps. 

Mrs. Gilbert, dry-eyed, sitting alone in the darkened 
library saw the boy come across the room toward her. 

“I’ve come to take care of you, mither,” he said stal- 
wartly. 

“Oh, my laddie, my laddie,” she cried, as the pent-up 
tears burst forth. She knew already how soon she would 
need his care. 


CHAPTER II 


THE PRESIDENT BLACKS HIS OWN SHOES 

T HE doors of the new Municipal building slammed 
now and then as if to awaken the drowsy Main 
Street of Hampstead. It was Spring once more, 
but twenty years had passed since Dr. Gilbert died, 
twenty long years for the young, twenty short years for 
the older people of the now thriving city. It was Wednes- 
day night, and the stores were closed and dark, except 
for an occasional red or green light that marked a drug- 
gist’s long vigil, and except for the inviting entrance of 
the Hampstead Hotel, flanked by a flaring glare of bril- 
liancy. The few people who strolled aimlessly up and 
down the sidewalk had wandered in to the center in 
search of something to do, and were disappointed. 

Shortly a cart was driven up beside the dilapidated 
bandstand at the end of the green opposite the Municipal 
building. The horse was unhitched and was led away, 
while the man left in the derelict cart lit two campaign 
torches and, fixing them securely in opposite corners of 
his improvised stage, he stood forth for a moment, his 
fingers thrust in his tightly buttoned coat of clerical cut, 
that all might see. He had a square, dumpy body and 
crooked legs about which soiled gray trousers wrinkled 
from the end of his short coat to their tattered bottoms. 
His coarse, pudgy face which had been clean-shaven some 
13 


14 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


three days before, beamed with an odd mixture of child- 
like good humor and pompous pride upon the dozen boys 
who had gathered silently about the cart. A moment 
later he was sitting on a campstool picking at a banjo, 
and reciting in a megaphonic baritone the trials of a man 
and a maid 

“A suckin’ cider throo a straw.” 

Almost instantly a large and constantly growing crowd 
surrounded him, coming it seemed out of nowhere from 
every direction: loafers from the post-office steps, travel- 
ing men from the hotel, couples from the park benches, 
and all the floating population which, blocks away, heard 
the shouted melody. Windows went up in the buildings 
about the square, and curious faces peered out, and 
across the way in the Municipal building the first arrivals 
at the regular meeting of the Common Council crowded 
each other to stare down at the little man with the big 
voice. 

“ Say, ’tis a good thing for the telephone company that 
there ain’t many voices loike that wan,” remarked Mr. 
Moriarty. “ Sure all he needs to do is to open the window 
an’ talk. The feller at the other end o’ the wire’d hear 
him all right.” 

“A suckin’ cider throo a straw-aw-aw-aw,” sang the 
little man, his mouth excavating his face from ear to ear. 
The crowd grinned and a few mouths yawned wide in 
unconscious imitation. 

As the song was finished a large automobile came 
noisily down the street and stopped at the curb. An 
elderly man with a red, scowling face alighted, followed 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 15 


by two middle-aged women whose angular lines suggested 
propriety and loneliness, and a young girl who, disre- 
garding a proffered hand, sprang down unaided. The 
three women turned to watch the scene in the square. 

“ Isn’t it picturesque?” said Miss Snifkins’ friend from 
Boston, whose voice dropped at the end of a sentence in an 
incline down which sentimentality oozed audibly. “ See, 
Cordelia, the city square, the lights of torches lighting up 
a sea of faces and there in the center that figure which is 
to say the least — ah — unusual. It’s really poetic.” 

“ Yes, it reminds you of ‘ there was a sound of deviltry 
by night/ as Billy McNish says about our motor,” laughed 
Clare Hardy, her bright black eyes dancing. 

Miss Snifkins looked at her friend apologetically, and 
turned back in time to see the little man put a ball of 
lighted paper in his mouth. 

“Disgusting,” she said, and she followed Mr. Hardy, 
who was calling them with some irritation from the door- 
way. 

“For all the world like a frog,” remarked the girl 
derisively, as she watched the little man hop from one side 
of the cart to the other in his efforts to be amusing. 

“How very clever,” assented Miss Snifkins’ friend 
politely, and they followed the others. As they reached 
the doorway they stopped and looked back at the square 
where the little man was suddenly silent. He had at- 
tracted his crowd and he had amused them. It was 
manifestly time for business. He reappeared from the 
shadows of the front of the cart holding high in one hand 
a flat, round tin box. The index finger of the other hand 
Jhe shook accusingly at tb£ awestruck crowd. 


16 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“Did you know/' he asked in a hoarse whisper that 
grew to a loud, menacing shout, “ that the President of 
the United States blacks his own shoes?” He paused 
proudly to note the effect of his words. “No, not for 
exercise, strenuous man of action tho’ he be; not because 
he has to, certainly not — he could undoubtedly borrow 
the money for a shine from the Secretary of the Treasury; 
not because he wants to take meat and drink from the 
poor boy, who, like an artist, wields a brush for a living. 
Shall I tell you why, my friends? It is a precious secret! 
Because — because — he has learned that it is easier to 
black his own shoes with Diamond Blacking than to have 
anyone black them for him.” 

Three of the party at the door of the Municipal building 
had gone in after the opening sentence, but the girl re- 
mained, her eyes sparkling with the humor of it. At last 
she closed the door and hurried up the stairs to find her 
father stamping the corridor, impatient at the delay. 

“I wonder if it can be true,” said Miss Snifkins’ friend 
dreamily, as they entered the large room at the front of 
the building. 

“If what can be true?” the girl asked. 

“ If the President does black his own shoes,” said Miss 
Snifkins’ friend. 

Samuel Hardy had intended to be a spectator at this 
particular meeting of the Common Council, but he had 
had no idea of acting as a chaperon. Mrs. Hardy, how- 
sver, had happened to mention the fact casually to Corde- 
lia Snifkins, the English teacher at the High School, and 
Miss Snifkins had repeated it to her friend who taught 
“government” and other studies in a Massachusetts 



c< 4 The President of the United States blacks 

his own shoes. 


9 9 * 

























































































































; . 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 17 


boarding-school. Mr. Hardy, after some argument during 
which he found opportunity to occasionally interject 
“yes” or “no,” consented to take them to the meeting, 
and discussed the matter rather abruptly with his wife 
afterwards. Clare Hardy had attached herself to the 
expedition at the last moment because there seemed 
to be nothing else to do. 

The “city fathers,” as the Hampstead News called the 
members of the Council, were taking their places for the 
meeting, when the party, led by Mr. Hardy, marched in 
and found seats at the rear of the room. Two or three 
older men bowed to the manufacturer, and Alderman 
William McNish smiled and returned the girl’s bright 
little nod, while some of the younger men nudged each 
other and winked visibly. Clare Hardy, noticing them, 
flushed at their rudeness. 

“Have you ever attended one of these meetings be- 
fore?” asked Miss Snifkins, when they were all settled as 
comfortably as possible on the long wooden benches. 

“No,” said Clare Hardy sweetly, but in a tone loud 
enough for some of the offenders to hear. “The men I 
usually see have manners.” 

A tall, sad-looking man, also a spectator, sitting directly 
behind them suddenly bent double in a paroxysm of silent 
laughter, whispered to his companion, and then was con- 
vulsed once more. 

The routine business of the Council was quickly dis- 
posed of — cleared away to gain time for the final discus- 
sion and decision concerning the Street Railway Bill. 
Hampstead had grown rapidly in the last few years, and 
the Street Railway Company was anxious to more than 


18 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


double its length of track within the city. The terms of 
the bill proposed, however, seemed so favorable to the 
company that it was generally conceded that the bill 
would be rejected until large modifications were made. 
In fact, the only popular clause in the bill was the promise 
of the much-needed Broad Street extension within six 
months. Ex-Congressman Strutt arose to present the 
company’s case, and Mr. Hardy ignored a question from 
Miss Snifkins’ friend and leaned forward to listen. The 
novelty of parliamentary practice had lost its first interest 
for Clare Hardy, however, and she was enjoying, instead, 
the comments of the tall man behind her. 

She knew the tall man. His name was Tubb, and he 
was a grocer. His greatest rival, Mr. Butterson, was a 
councilman and sat over at the right, his chin sunk upon 
his breast, sleeping peacefully. The rivalry between the 
two had been bitter. Mr. Tubb had conducted the lead- 
ing grocery store in town under the simple sign, “Tubb — 
Grocer,” until Mr. Butterson had opened “The Hamp- 
stead Cash Provision Store,” and the populace, always 
eager for a change, had rushed to the new shop. Mr. 
Tubb had retaliated by rechristening his store “The New 
York Grocery,” and considerable custom returned tem- 
porarily. Mr. Butterson changed his sign to the “United 
States Cash Store,” and Mr. Tubb responded with “The 
World Grocery,” while the sign painters smiled as they 
added up their bills. “The World Grocery” stared Mr. 
Butterson in the face daily until at last he evolved “The 
Universal Cash Grocery Store.” After that for months 
Mr. Butterson watched Mr. Tubb’s store narrowly, won- 
dering what he would do if Tubb went higher. Mr. Tubb, 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


19 


however, had had an inspiration, and his opponent, riding 
one day on a street-car, had read the result in black type 
on a white card: 

“If you want to buy some grub 
Come and call on Mr. Tubb. 

He will trust you for your food 
And you can bet his food is good.” 

Mr. Butterson went home that night pondering. All 
day long in the store the miserable doggerel had echoed 
from the change trolley and from the hum of conversa- 
tion on the floor. The next day he called to Gilshannon, 
the News reporter, who was passing the store, and they 
conversed in whispers for some time, after which Gilshan- 
non went down to the News office and laughed all by 
himself. And only the week before this Common Council 
meeting, another card had appeared beside the Tubb 
advertisement : 

“ We ask cash while others trust. 

We’ll be here when others bust. 

Number Seven Railroad Street 
Everything that’s good to eat.” 

Mr. Butterson was in the Council; therefore Mr. Tubb 
always attended the meetings; and therefore, also, he 
laughed convulsively at Clare Hardy’s reference to “ man- 
ners.” Now he was describing to his companion, evi- 
dently a stranger, the importance of Ex-Congressman 
Strutt, the insignificant looking little man who, in slow, 
matter-of-fact tones that implied logic, was explaining 
the great services which the Street Railway Company had 
done to Hampstead. 


20 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ Strutt's had good luck, that’s all,” the girl heard him 
say. “He was poor’s Job’s turkey when he started 
readin’ law. But the old man he was studyin’ with, I 
fergit his name, he took to Strutt and when he died, 
Strutt got his practice. Even then he couldn’t ’a’ made 
a livin’ if he hadn’t played politics — a lawyer can’t in 
these parts. Somehow ’r other he got next to Alonzo 
Hubbard, and he’s stuck to him closer than the bark to a 
tree ever since. He never pays any attention to anybody 
unless he happens to feel like it, and when somebody said 
they wanted an independent candidate for Congress, they 
decided Strutt was the most independent man in the 
district. Some folks voted for him to get him out o’ 
town but, Lord, there wasn’t any losin’ Strutt. And 
now that measly little shrimp’s an officer at Hubbard’s 
factory. He’s got a lot of stock in this electric company; 
he an’ Hubbard practically own the gas company, and I 
don’t know what all more. Yes,” he added, “he trades 
at Butterson’s.” 

Clare Hardy leaned back, smiling at the ceiling with 
half-closed eyes. The Ex-Congressman still drawled on. 

“The Mayor?” continued the whispered voice behind 
her. “His name is Brett. He runs a bank here, a bank 
his father started. Only one trouble with Brett. He 
drinks. Don’t look it, does he, white face and all; but 
he’s got a fine wife. He always was a high flyer and 
when she came here — she was German and didn’t know 
a word of English— he used to go ’round to where she 
was visitin’ and teach her. One night she went out to 
dinner and some women asked her if she didn’t think the 
weather was all right. ‘Damfino,’ says she. Brett’d 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 21 


told her that meant ‘ yes, indeed.’ Fact! After that she 
sort o’ laid fer him, and one night he put his arm ’round 
her and kissed her. ‘You know what this means in all 
languages,’ she says. Brett, he didn’t want to show his 
ignorance, so he says ‘Yes,’ and they was married.” 

Ex-Congressman Strutt finished abruptly and sat down, 
and a portly man with chin whiskers arose and began to 
speak in a persuasive, almost timid voice. Through the 
open window came the plank, plank, of the banjo, and 
occasionally the words of the fakir’s song. 

“Merrivale> that is,” went on the voice behind Clare 
Hardy. “Made his money in real estate. Knows his 
business, he does. He’s a Baptist, too, next pew to mine 
and o’ course he trades with me. He boomed a lot o’ 
swamp land out near Tareville three years ago; had a 
brass band and a free lunch and such like; marked the 
place out in streets and sold lots faster ’n you kin flap 
pancakes. Seemed like everybody had always thought 
that place was the only place on earth to build a house. 
He paid the old widow that owned the swamp ten thou- 
sand dollars for it, and he cleared up about twenty-five 
thousand in a few weeks. No one ain’t ever built there 
though. You can see the signs — Pine Street, and Plum 
Street, and the rest — from the cars. The lots is all just 
long grass and weeds. Oh, he’s sharp, he is, and he’s 
one of the best Christian men in town. He gives more to 
our church than anybody, I guess.” 

Clare Hardy looked Captain Merrivale over quizzically 
and felt impulsively sorry for his wife. She soon forgot 
them both, however, and stared about the bare room in 
search of something more interesting. She watched the 


22 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Mayor as he lolled back indifferently in his armchair 
behind the desk, until he looked up and across at her, and 
she turned to Miss Snifkins with a wry face and a feeling 
of sudden dislike for him which she could not explain. 
Shortly, however, the meeting gained her undivided at- 
tention for the first time. Captain Merrivale had com- 
pleted his remarks in favor of the bill, and Alderman 
McNish took the floor. Clare Hardy leaned forward with 
frank interest, not noticing the curious looks that were 
turned toward her nor her father’s grim stare as the young 
man began in opposition to the bill. It was evident from 
his opening sentence that he was personally popular. He 
had a merry, jaunty manner that caught every listener’s 
attention and the real orator’s gift that held them. He 
talked conversationally and well, and yet the girl ad- 
mitted against her wish, long before he was through, that 
he was not moving his audience — that he was not using 
his power so much to influence votes as unconsciously to 
increase his own reputation. To her feminine judgment 
Billy sometimes posed. She felt that he was posing now 
and the thought hurt her. Something was lacking in 
his speech, seriousness or vigor or something else, she was 
not sure what, and she was sorry. He retired, flushed by 
the considerable applause that followed his remarks, and 
he could not understand the frown that still creased her 
forehead, when he stole a glance back at her. 

Clare Hardy heard only indistinctly the short remarks 
that followed from various parts of the hall, and with them 
mingled the noises from the square below. She was try- 
ing to understand why Billy had failed. A motion to 
have the voting secret caught her attention at last, and 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 23 


she looked up in time to see an exceedingly large and 
awkward man rise from the seat beyond Billy McNish. 
His irregular, homely features were kindly but set with 
decision, and he leaned his great bulk on one broad rough 
hand flattened on the rail before him. 

“I don’t believe in that,” he began in slow, drawling 
tones. He hesitated until the rustle of the people turn- 
ing toward him should die away, and suddenly, as if 
in answer to his remark, came the echoing voice from the 
square, clearly audible to everyone in the room: 

“It’s a fact, sir. The President of the United States 
blacks his own shoes.” 

A suppressed titter grew into loud unrestrained laugh- 
ter. Billy McNish, whose sense of the ridiculous was 
strong, lay back in his seat and shook for joy. Mr. 
Butterson awoke suddenly, and became very red before 
his blinking eyes showed him that they were not laughing 
at him. Directly in front of the speaker a coarse looking 
man with a face covered with red blotches, and with eyes 
that looked out sneeringly from under a low, overhanging 
brow, grinned up at him and laughed tauntingly, occa- 
sionally beating his open hand on the bench to add to 
the din. Captain Merrivale, nodding to the Honorable 
Strutt, started to applaud vigorously, and others took it 
up, laughingly. Even Mr. Hardy’s face relaxed, and 
Miss Snifkins and her friend giggled nervously. Clare 
Hardy was smiling also, but the tall speaker’s evident 
earnestness had caught her attention, and she watched 
him as he stood, his face flushed with embarrassment, 
his shoulders braced back, protruding chin set firmly 
although his mouth was smiling, waiting for the others to 


24 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


laugh themselves out. At last the Mayor called for order, 
and it came slowly, the noise breaking out afresh as some- 
one closed the windows. When, at last, there was quiet 
once more it seemed to Clare Hardy that it had come more 
in response to the speaker's silent command than because 
the Mayor had asked for it, and she felt intuitively that 
this man had an indefinable something which Billy lacked. 
Not until they were waiting for him rather than he for 
them, did he speak. 

“Our friend believes in publicity,” he drawled at last. 
“ So do I. A secret ballot on a thing like this is a sneak- 
ing ballot. As I said,” he smiled an illuminating boyish 
smile, “I don't believe in it.” 

Nevertheless the Council, to Clare Hardy's surprise, 
voted for the secret ballot. Many who had listened dur- 
ing the evening with a bored look of dignity on their 
faces, were laughing again with easy good nature as they 
voted. The little man in the square seemed to have 
driven the serious spirit from the meeting. Clare Hardy, 
leaning back and watching the big man talking with 
Billy McNish, heard Mr. Tubb's inevitable comment: 

“Gilbert,” said Mr. Tubb, “Jawn Gilbert. He's had a 
hard row to hoe. Father was rich and died broke when 
he was a kid. Jack, he had to go to work in the shops 
and he's made good tho' a lot of folks that used to toady 
to th' old doctor — his father — you know — don't have 
anything to do with him. He's straight as a string and 
strong as an ox. Why, he came down to me a few 
weeks ago and showed me where I'd undercharged him 
fourteen cents, tho' I guess he needs every penny he can 
get; an' tho' he's as easy goin' and good tempered a fellow 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


25 


as y'ever see, they say he licked Martin Jethro an’ Tom 
Grady together one day down at Hardy's. They ain't 
either of 'em slouches either. That's Jethro sittin' in 
front of him. Oh, he's got the right stuff in him. He 
ain't any piece of fancy work to be used for decoration. 
Look at his jaw." 

The secret ballot had been taken and the Mayor was 
about to announce the vote. Gilbert sat straight in his 
seat, his chin protruding solid and strong in the profile. 
Then there arose a low hum of surprise from the thirty or 
more visitors, and many Council members looked at each 
other questioningly. The bill had passed, and the Hamp- 
stead Street Railway Company had its added franchise at 
its own terms. 

“D’clare! Strutt's got 'em," ejaculated Mr. Tubb. 
“Funny, ain't it? Does it just the way Neely — he's that 
long slim feller with the watery eyes — does with ten- 
pins. Watch him roll and looks like he ain't throwing the 
ball hard enough to get down to th' other end, but some- 
how or other he gets a ten-strike every time." 

Clare Hardy smiled across at Billy McNish, whose face 
was frankly disconsolate. Looking beyond she saw Gil- 
bert, who had not moved when the vote was announced 
and who sat looking thoughtfully at Mayor Brett; and 
her face flushed slightly as she remembered what Mr. 
Tubb had said about the people who had toadied to the 
Doctor. She had not spoken a dozen words to John Gil- 
bert in as many years. 

The meeting adjourned quickly, and Mr. Hardy left the 
ladies to join the Mayor and Captain Merrivale and others 
who were congratulating the Ex-Congressman on the sue- 


26 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


cess of the bill. Billy McNish emerged from a group that 
were laughing again with Gilbert about the interruption 
of his remarks, and came to greet Clare Hardy. 

“I'd like to knew what you're doing here?" he said, 
after he had been introduced to Miss Snif kins' friend, 
who was tremulous and ill at ease in the presence of his 
greatness. Miss Snifkins and her friend explained simul- 
taneously and with some confusion. 

“I wanted to hear you make a speech," said Clare 
Hardy, her eyes dancing. 

Billy flushed self-consciously, and Miss Snifkins and her 
friend turned to watch the others who were beginning to 
leave the hall. 

“Well, how was it?" Billy was looking frankly for 
approval. 

“Oh, you did very well," said the girl provokingly. 

“Best speech I ever made and all because you were 
here, although I’ll admit you nearly knocked me when 
you came." 

“They passed the bill," said Clare viciously. 

“Yes. I don't understand it either." 

“ Never mind, Billy, you’ll make better speeches." 

“You’re mighty unsatisfactory, Clare." 

“So are you." 

Someone called Billy away before he could retort. Mr. 
Hardy rejoined the ladies and hurried them out of the 
rapidly emptying room, Clare Hardy nodding a smile to 
Billy from the doorway. In the street they found the 
square deserted; the cart and the crowd and the little 
fakir had melted away as if by magic. 

“Wonder if he sold all o' the President's shoe blackin'," 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 27 


Mr. Tubb was heard remarking. “Wonder what the 
great man ’ll do if he has.” 

Two men came down the steps as they sat waiting for 
Mr. Hardy to start the motor. They were arm in arm, 
and were talking vigorously. Clare Hardy watched them 
swing rapidly up the street, Gilbert with long methodical 
strides and Billy McNish with quicker, more nervous 
steps, until they were lost in the shadow. 

“ How’d you like it, sis?” said Mr. Hardy, with a sigh of 
relief when later they had deposited Miss Snifkins and her 
friend at Miss Snifkins’ house and had started for West 
Hill. 

“I learned a good deal I didn’t know before.” 

“Huh,” ejaculated Mr. Hardy, “I thought you left 
that to the schoolmarms. What did you find out?” 

“Oh, that Captain Merrivale’s a good Christian who 
sells lots for a good deal more than they’re worth,” rat- 
tled off his daughter, counting each detail on her fingers; 
“how that disgusting Mr. Brett happened to marry such 
a charming woman; that Mr. Neely is a good bowler; 
that Jack Gilbert isn’t a piece of fancy work, and many 
other things. You see, I sat in front of Mr. Tubb,” she 
added, in answer to the amazed look on Mr. Hardy’s face. 

“Why did Billy McNish oppose that bill?” she asked a 
minute later. 

“Party politics, I guess,” said Mr. Hardy. 

“And why did you favor it?” she asked again. 

“Because there’s money in it for me, but that’s a 
family secret.” 

Clare Hardy stared out at the lights in the houses and 
the tree shadows nearer by that scuttled past them, and 


28 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


tried to understand the ways of men. As they turned in 
at the narrow driveway, however, a familiar voice caught 
her ear. 

“And say, Jack,” Billy was calling up the street, 
“remember, the President of the United States blacks 
his own shoes.” 

Clare smiled across at her father, but he was busy with 
the machine. 


CHAPTER III 


“if ye git hot under the collar, take it off” 

T HE heart of modern Hampstead is in its factories, 
and the casual traveler, hurrying past over any 
one of the three lines of railroad, hears its trip- 
hammer pulse and feels its throbbing power long before 
the train reaches the large stone station at the center. 
Looking out, he catches glimpses of the solid mass of brick 
ramparts whitened now and then for better light, that 
line either side of Hampstead River from the Hardy works 
on the north to the newer Hubbard mills at the south. 
From the windows blackened faces peer down at him 
and grimy hands wave him a careless welcome. When 
the train stops a crowd of passengers bustle out upon the 
platform: emigrants with awkward bundles, and sullen 
faces, timid faces, grinning faces, stolid faces, all talking 
at once, a medley of Italian and Polish dialects; hurrying 
noisy young men with heavy satchels of samples; keen- 
eyed, square- jawed, silent men who have the look of the 
shops, and an occasional more elderly man, slower of 
step, his shrewd eyes fixed on the pavement before him 
as if lost in a maze of figures and estimates. And all of 
them are, or soon will be, part of the vast machine of 
machines the train has left behind along the river bank. 

Life in Hampstead is largely a matter of habit. In the 
morning, at the shriek of the “quarter whistle,” which is 
29 


30 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


the Pied Piper of Hampstead, half of the population flows 
down West Hill, and down East Hill, where a colony of 
Poles are elbowing American citizens of Irish birth, and 
up from the South End, conglomerate of Germans and 
Swedes, and from across the river, “ Little Italy,” as it is 
called, where new streets are christened every week and 
where Mike the Padrone bullies his following down and 
up and across and into the mills, where the doors close 
after them. The better half remains at home, and the 
center is rural with milk wagons and grocery teams and a 
load of hay now and then in its season. The ebb and 
flow at noon is followed a little later by incoming groups 
of women shoppers who make Mr. McNish’s big depart- 
ment-store their headquarters for the afternoon, while at 
night when the stores are open, and especially on Satur- 
day nights, Main Street approximates the bedlam of a 
metropolis. Hampstead men seldom stay up late at 
night, except to get the news of some unusual event, like 
the Presidential election or a championship prize-fight, 
and even for these midnight is usually the limit of the 
vigil. And Hampstead thinks as it lives. When Cap- 
tain Merrivale’s son, who teaches in a college, came home 
one summer, workingmen, who could not understand how 
anyone could make a living without going into the shop 
at seven and coming away at five, shook their heads and 
remarked that “ young Merrivale couldn’t be doin’ very 
well,” and kindly old Mr. McNish said seriously that it 
seemed a pity for a young man, who evidently had so 
much ability, to be wasting his time when he might make 
money in business. 

The Honorable Strutt had once called Hampstead in a 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


31 


speech long remembered by its citizens, “the city of 
ideas,” which Billy McNish promptly paraphrased and 
said that the Congressman had meant “I Deiis.” Mr. 
Strutt probably meant that among the citizens there were 
an unusual number of inventive Yankees, who found 
constantly new things for the factories to make and new 
ways of making things, or that the city was progressive 
and was well supplied with public buildings and schools. 
Otherwise it is very much like the country boy who at 
ten is wearing the outgrown clothes of six. Its philosophy 
is elementary and its tastes are unsophisticated of stand- 
ard. Its people work hard every working day; all but a 
very few, from Alonzo Hubbard down to the poorest day- 
laborer, earn more than they spend, and nearly all of them 
live in detached houses and are respectable, church-going 
and law-abiding. It is a contented community, and if it 
is seldom swept by enthusiasm, it is grounded in sound 
common-sense and is impelled forward by steady ambi- 
tion. 

It is a home-loving town, and on Decoration Day, when 
the thinned ranks of the Grand Army had passed, ranks 
led by Captain Merrivale, who had enlisted as a private in 
’63, who had been taken ill before he reached Washington, 
but who nevertheless had always enjoyed the martial 
title; and flanked on the last line by Mr. McNish, who 
had been a Major in the regulars but who remained plain 
Mr. McNish, the people hurried back to their homes and 
left the streets at the center quiet save for occasional 
stragglers. Billy McNish, however, fat and roly-poly in 
his khaki, returned after the parade to his law office. 
There he threw up the windows and let the light and air 


32 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


stream in over musty books and paper-strewn desk. He 
stood moodily looking out for a moment. Then he turned 
to the stubby, straight little Irishman with black coat, 
red hair and pug nose, who had followed him in and who 
now stood waiting, fingering a derby hat which had once 
been black. 

“Sit down, Moriarty,” said Billy good-humoredly, “and 
have a cigar,” opening up a box out of one of the desk 
drawers. After seeing his guest pulling and puffing noisily, 
he lit a cigar himself and settled back in the big office 
chair. The breeze from the window ruffled up his long 
curly hair, making more boyish his round face, clean 
shaven save for a closely trimmed mustache. For a 
moment they sat silent, Moriarty’s eyes fixed on the waste- 
basket, Billy's on the ceiling. 

“ I’m going to be absolutely frank with you, Moriarty,” 
said McNish at last. Moriarty leaned forward and took 
his cigar from his mouth. 

“You’re talking about trying to make me a judge. 
Now a judge, Moriarty, is a man who is considered to be 
wise because he never smiles and because he don’t talk.” 
Billy stopped and looked out of the window for a moment. 
“ Now, I’m not that sort. I like a good time. I’ve got 
to laugh and to talk from late in the morning until early in 
the morning,” he said with a merry grimace that was 
attractive. “So I can’t be a judge, but I can be a poli- 
tician. Moriarty!” he went on, “I want to be Mayor of 
Hampstead; later I want to be Governor, and after that 
Congress or something else — anything I can get.” 

Moriarty studied the ash of his cigar microscopically. 

“’Tis a good cigar,” he said finally. “It burns like a 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 33 


Manyool Garcy. It burns straight. Take it aisy,” he 
said quickly, noticing Billy’s nervous drumming with his 
fingers on the chair arm. “Fm cornin’ to that. You 
burn straight, too; you’ve got a good head well connected 
with yer tongue; fer political purposes you’re a hero who 
fought in Cuby even if you only got as far as Camp Alger. 
But politics is like a horse race. How you look before- 
hand don’t count so much as the way you come down the 
stretch.” 

“Well, what’s the matter with me?” asked Billy, laugh- 
ing. “Haven’t I staying powers?” 

“ I’ll tell ye, sir. It ’ll be close this Fall. It’s always 
close. The Demmycratic candidate ’ll need the union 
vote. Unions don’t like lawyers. I wonder why. And 
they hate Sam Hardy, and ye’re Sam Hardy’s lawyer.” 

“Hardy gave me that cigar that burns so straight,” 
laughed Billy. 

“Hardy?” ejaculated Moriarty. “He did?” With a 
quick movement he threw the partly smoked cigar on the 
floor and stamped the fire out of it. Then he rose to his 
feet. “’Tis an insult to let any respectable man smoke 
after him without warnin’,” he said angrily. 

“Have one of mine to take the taste out of your 
mouth,” said Billy soothingly. 

Moriarty hesitated a moment. Then he leaned over and 
took it just as the door opened quietly and let in the tall, 
broad-shouldered form of John Gilbert. He was fanning 
himself with a slouch hat, and he smiled broadly as he 
saw the two men before him. 

“Hello,” he drawled. “Am I interrupting a con- 
spiracy?” 


34 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“How are ye, Jack?” said Moriarty heartily, rising and 
putting out his rough hand. 

Billy, evidently embarrassed, fiddled with a penholder 
on the desk. 

“Why, I'd just as soon have you know, old man,” he 
said at last. “We’ve been talking about whether I 
should run for Mayor in the Fall. There seems to be a 
demand for young men, eh, Moriarty?” 

“Yis,” replied the Irishman, who remained standing. 
“An’ I was just agoin’ to think it over, ye know.” He 
caught Billy’s glance and added quickly — “Some more, 
av coorse.” 

“Good idea,” remarked Gilbert, looking with a whim- 
sical smile from one to the other, as if he understood all 
that had not been told him. “If I can help, you know 
where I am, Moriarty.” 

The Irishman had reached the door, but he turned now 
as a sudden thought came to him. 

“ Ye can help,” he said. “ Ye’ve got a big pull with the 
men in the last two years — the union men especially.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gilbert replied, slowly shaking his 
head. “But of course you can bank on anything I can 
do — both of you ” 

Moriarty went down the stairs slowly. As he reached 
the street he stopped, leaned over and slapped his knee 
vigorously. Then, suddenly coming to himself, he looked 
shamefacedly up and down the street to see if anyone 
had noticed him do it. “He’s the man, not the other 
wan. I wonder,” he had muttered as he smote his knee. 
And he stood thinking for two or three minutes before he 
moved off down the street. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 35 


“Why weren't you at the town meeting last night, 
Jack?” asked Billy, upstairs, after Moriarty had gone. 

“I was there,” grinned Gilbert, sitting in the seat 
Moriarty had vacated. “Down in back. Didn’t stay 
through.” 

“That’s just the trouble with you, Jack,” began Billy 
impulsively. “You always take a back seat. I’ll bet 
you saw me all right.” 

Gilbert nodded. 

“And to-day here I tramp around with my medals on; 
probably looked a holy show. D’ye think I do it for fun? 
Every few steps I took I was cursing myself for an ass.” 

“That pretty typewriter girl of Hardy’s said, ‘ Ain’t he 
lovely?’ when you passed,” broke in Gilbert, smiling. 

“That’s just it,” went on Billy eagerly. “Everybody 
in town knows me because I always take a front seat. 
They forget you because you always hide away out of 
sight.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” Gilbert said after a slight 
pause. “I’ll try to brace up; but I can’t talk, Billy, and 
a crowd scares me. 

“Say, Billy,” Gilbert went on, “why did Hardy let in 
Brett and Merrivale to his board of directors?” 

“How should I know?” puzzled Billy. 

“Thought you might. And v/here did Brett get money 
enough to buy two big blocks of Hardy stock?” 

“I don’t know. Has he?” 

“So I heard. I just wondered about it, that’s all. 
Thought you might know.” 

But Billy did not know, and was chagrined that he did 
not, for Billy never liked to admit his ignorance of any- 


36 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


thing. Soon Gilbert arose to go and Billy, slamming 
down the window, went with him. Opposite the pho- 
tographer’s display at the foot of the stairs they stopped 
for a moment* The central picture was that of a slender 
girl in evening dress, whose wavy dark hair swept a broad 
forehead and about whose full lips and cheeks there 
played a tantalizing smile. The portrait caught the eyes 
of both men as they stopped. They stood for a momentj 
staring at it without speaking. 

“Can I congratulate you yet, Billy?” asked Gilbert in 
a low voice. 

McNish shook his head. 

“I wish you could,” he said simply. “She’s the best 
ever.” 

Their ways divided at the corner, for Billy was going to 
the armory, and Gilbert turned up West Hill alone, past 
the clumsy new brick blocks of the business section which 
were gradually encroaching on the residential property 
beyond. A few old soldiers who drifted quietly by him, 
younger, louder men in militia uniform and an occasional 
sight-seer or two only accentuated the holiday emptiness 
of the streets. Farther on he could see at the summit of 
the hill the far-away gaunt gray outline of the old Gilbert 
house, sturdy and firm as it had been when the Doctor 
left it for the last time twenty years ago. It seemed now 
to cry invitation to Jack every time he passed it, going to 
and from the little cottage beyond, where he and his 
mother lived. 

Mr. McNish had bought it to save it from the ruin the 
fatal letter had brought, and had mortgaged his future to 
do it; though the future luckily had taken care of the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


37 


mortgage afterwards. Jack had been kept at school until 
he had finished the High School course, and then, with the 
student’s mind he had inherited from the Doctor, had put 
aside thoughts of college and had gone to work for Hardy 
& Son. There were debts to be paid and a future to be 
made for his mother and for himself. Mr. McNish had 
offered him a place in his store, but the young fellow had 
refused the kindly suggestion. “ You’ve been a very 
good friend to us, sir,” he had said gravely, “and I think 
I had rather work for someone else.” So Mr. McNish 
admired him all the more, and although it hurt his mother 
to see him come home with his white hands daubed with 
inerasable grease and dirt, she approved. It had been 
hard for the boy at first, for he was proud, and it hurt him 
to see his former friends gradually become polite and 
restrained. The girls he knew soon merely bowed to him, 
and even the boys lost something of their former good 
comradeship as their different tasks drew them apart from 
him. Billy McNish alone remained entirely unchanged. 
Billy went to Yale and to Law School and came back as 
loyal a friend of Jack’s as before. He enlisted and be- 
came a lieutenant of volunteers at the time of the Spanish 
War, and when he arrived in Hampstead again Jack was 
the first person he had gone to see. Billy went to all the 
social affairs of the clique of well-to-do people who were 
considered the society of the city, but there had never 
been a time when their friendship had wavered. In the 
meantime Jack had made new friends among the men of 
the shops. The older mechanics welcomed him for the old 
Doctor’s sake, and in common with the others grew to 
like him. Only a few had been jealous of his slow advance 


38 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


to the position of assistant superintendent of the large 
mills, for everyone knew that he had earned it by per- 
sistent work. There were many indeed who said without 
hesitation that even Simpson, the superintendent, did 
not know the shops as well as Gilbert did. And it had 
been work, day in and day out, and at night self-imposed 
tasks of study to perfect his equipment. 

At first he rebelled bitterly against it all; this driving 
work into which he had been forced. He felt the relent- 
less power of circumstance wedging him into a narrow 
niche. It suffocated him, and he tried to turn on it and 
beat it back. He hated the machines, hated the dirt, 
hated the badly ventilated rooms. He wanted to learn, 
learn, learn. And yet his mother, patiently caring for the 
little cottage with the same grace and even greater ten- 
derness, never heard a word of complaint, and only a few 
times did her keen mother's eyes get a fugitive glimpse of 
his trial. The only person to whom he ever unburdened 
himself was the Colonel. Once he let the whole flood of 
his disappointment and discouragement loose in the Colo- 
nel's little sitting-room, edged with bows and arrows, 
wampum necklaces, snowshoes, saddles and a hundred 
and one relics of the grizzled old man's career on the 
frontier. When he was through the Colonel patted him 
on the back roughly. “ Don't git grouchy ef things don't 
come your way, my boy," he said. “ Ef ye're grouchy ye 
can't blame 'em." 

From the rebellion of the first year he relapsed into 
stolid, dull plodding, seeing little light ahead, but saving a 
little money from his pitiful salary to reduce the indebted- 
ness that stared him constantly in the face. Again it was 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


39 


the Colonel who put him to rights, for Jack was sensitive 
and looked up to the Colonel much as he had as a boy. 
“How's the traveling?" asked the Colonel one night. 
“Well, I'm doing my best," said Jack lackadaisically. 
“Doing your best, my boy," said the. Colonel, blinking at 
Jack over his spectacles, “ain't any good on earth ef it 
don't git you whar ye want to go." 

In the last two or three years the work had had a new 
zest for him. To meet problems and solve them; to know 
men and lead them; to build up achievement after 
achievement, piece by piece, began to appeal to him. 
His imagination, dulled before, began to find music in the 
clanging drill, an epic in the swinging machines, drama after 
drama in the human toil all about him. And his mother, 
watching him, day by day, smiled more often at her 
thoughts, as she saw his step grow more brisk and his 
little attentions to her become more spontaneous than 
they had been. His big body, hardened by rough toil, 
was strong beyond his own knowledge of it, and he had 
evolved a calmer philosophy than most men of his years. 

He was thinking now of the shops, puzzling over the 
same questions he had asked Billy McNish. The Doctor 
had bought a few shares of Hardy stock during the winter 
preceding his death, and they had held these alone out of 
the wreck of his fortune because the stock paid large 
dividends. Now the dividends had shrunk to almost 
nothing, and there had been no evidence until recently 
that anyone cared to buy the stock even at a low figure. 
Why was Mayor Brett buying it? And whom was he buy- 
ing it for? Everyone knew that the Mayor had no con- 
siderable amount of money free for investment. Gilbert 


40 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


was frankly puzzled. At intervals he thought of Hardy 
himself, the gruff “old man.” Then suddenly his mind 
ran off to greet the quaint figure of a little girl or to bow 
coolly to a tall young woman with wavy black hair bor- 
dering a broad forehead. He caught himself and blushed 
boyishly. It was remarkable, he thought, how plainly 
the little girl came back to him through all the years 
during which he had occasionally met the young lady 
and returned her pleasant nod. And it was remarkable, 
too, how clearly he remembered each change he had seen 
in her when she had been away at various times at college 
and elsewhere. 

And so he came to Colonel Mead's square frame house, 
which was set, old and contented looking, in the midst of 
thick trees and untrimmed bushes. Neighbors of the 
Colonel often complained to each other because his house 
alone, in a line of fresh modern dwellings, was dingy and 
the place unkempt. One of them, bolder than the rest, 
one evening when the Colonel was showing his curios, 
wrote her name in the dust on some old firearms and, 
shaking her smudged forefinger at the old veteran, 
remarked that cleanliness was next to godliness. 

“ Cleanliness, my dear madam," the blunt old blas- 
phemer had answered, “may be next to godliness, but 
comfort's better’n either of ’em." 

And the rugged old philosopher from experience con- 
tinued to live his life in his own way. As to other people's 
opinions it wasn't difficult, he often said, to think just as 
bad things of them as they could possibly think of him. 

Gilbert turned in at the sagging gate and mounted the 
worn steps. Having rung the bell he sat down on the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


41 


veranda rail to wait. As he did so his eye, through the 
vista of trees, caught sight of a little boy on the other side 
of the street, standing terrified as a huge dog, a big Dane, 
bounded about him in awkward playfulness. Almost 
immediately a tall, willowy girl appeared and put one hand 
on the frightened boy's shoulder and the other on the 
dog's head, and patted them both until the boy stopped 
whimpering and the dog's tail wagged vigorously. Gil- 
bert felt that he could almost see the tantalizing smile 
about Clare Hardy's mouth as she made the boy's hand 
smooth the big dog’s back. Then with the youngster, 
whom Gilbert had recognized as the son of the Rev. 
Brice, the new Methodist minister, almost reconciled, she 
disappeared behind the trees, the dog bounding on ahead. 

“When ye’ve ridden thet rail ez fer ez the door o' the 
ranch ye kin git down an' come in,” remarked the Colo- 
nel’s voice reflectively from the doorway, and Gilbert, 
laughing, disentangled himself from the railing and fol- 
lowed the old man in. 

“ Ef I'd 'a' known it wuz only you I wouldn't 'a' put 
my collar an' coat on,” the Colonel said. “ It's remark- 
able how ashamed civilization and women makes ye feel 
of a good clean neck and a shirt fresh from washin'.” 

They sat down in the little sitting-room whose windows 
were all wide open, and the Colonel began working upon 
a basket he had been weaving when Jack rang the bell. 

“Well,” remarked the Colonel, looking up. “What's 
on yer mind, my boy? Pry it off an' let’s look at it.” 

Gilbert took out his pipe, filled it and lighted it before 
he answered, and the Colonel went back to his work. 

“Has Brett tried to buy your Hardy stock, Colonel?” 


42 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“What?” The veteran stared at Jack in evident 
amazement. Gilbert repeated the question. 

“No,” said the Colonel, “he ain’t; but he wouldn’t 
need a regiment of men to make me do it.” 

“You’re a director in the concern.” 

“Thet’s whar ye’re wrong,” returned the Colonel. 
“Thar ain’t but one real director and thet’s Hardy. An’ 
when he gits throo directin’, thar won’t be nothin’ left 
fer the ravens to pick but bones. An’ I’d rather hev 
most anybody else a raven than me. Thar ain’t but one 
man in this here town,” went on the Colonel reflectively, 
“thet riles me worse’n Sam Hardy and that’s old Hub- 
bard. One’s vinegar an’ th’ other’s molasses. One sours 
my stummick an’ th’ other makes me sick. What’s the 
matter, boy?” 

Gilbert’s chair, which had been tilting back, had returned 
to its normal position with a crash, and there was a gleam 
in Gilbert’s eyes as he stared at the Colonel. After a 
moment he leaned back and smiled. 

“It just occurred to me that Brett might have a good 
deal of 1 molasses’ behind him, Colonel,” he drawled. 

Colonel Mead looked thoughtfully over his glasses at 
the young man. 

“Hubbard, eh?” he remarked at last. “Like ez not, 
Jack. Like ez not.” 

Gilbert sat silent for some minutes, during which the 
Colonel, who, from experience, was a wise man and con- 
siderate, returned to his basket-weaving. 

Alonzo Hubbard, starting after Hardy had achieved 
his first successes, had gradually built up a still larger 
business, and, within the last few years, had gained con- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 43 


trol of many of the smaller Hampstead concerns. It had 
been Hubbard’s competition that had reduced the profits 
of half of Hardy’s business, before the growing company 
in Westbury, ten miles away, had come to undersell 
Hardy on the other half. Hubbard was the richest man 
in Hampstead, and Mayor Brett was one of his closest 
social and business friends, although Brett was also 
ostensibly a friend to Hardy. Jack thought it all over 
rapidly. 

“ With good management we could make a lot of trouble 
for Hubbard and a lot of money for Hardy & Son,” Gil- 
bert said slowly. 

“ Holdin’ four deuces ain’t any good if ye’re playin' 
whist,” replied the Colonel. “Ye can’t hev good man- 
agement with Hardy, an’ ye’ve got to play with him.” 

“The old man is queer,” said Jack, shaking his head 
disconsolately. “He’s as proud as Punch of the shops. 
Look at that two hundred thousand dollars surplus we 
made years ago. He’d rather quit than spend a penny 
of that. And we need it. Lord, how we need it! It 
makes me hot under the collar to think of it.” 

“ Ef ye git hot under the collar,” remarked the Colonel 
out of the wisdom of experience, “take it off.” 

“Colonel,” went on Gilbert in the tone of a man who 
is telling a secret of which he is ashamed, “I’ve been 
studying the business pretty hard and pretty closely. 
I’ve got it all planned out on paper— machines, organiza- 
tion, everything. And there are some patents, too; that 
is to say, they are not patents yet— inventions I’ve been 
thinking about. If I only had a chance to ” 

“ But ye hevn’t, boy,” broke in the Colonel, putting 


44 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


aside the basketry, his interest in which had been feigned 
ever since Jack’s arrival. “ Ye hevn’t an’ ye won’t hev. 
Don’t git impatient, Jack. I got impatient with a mule 
once, a good many years ago, and when I came to, I was 
whole rods back of whar I was before. An’ what’s more, 
I didn’t want to go ahead agin fer days. Felt the humil- 
iation chiefly in my stummick, whar I’d connected with 
the mule’s heels. Well, Hardy’s a good deal of a mule. 
You jest stay on his back an’ be thankful ye’re thar.” 

Gilbert smiled genially at the Colonel’s sober face. 

“I’ve been thinking of putting my plans before him — 
the whole thing, Colonel.” 

“Don’t ye do it, Jack. When ye git all yer plans on 
paper, fold ’em up nice an’ even an’ put ’em in the fire an’ 
whistle * Yankee Doodle,’ an’ go back to work. Ez fer 
old Hubbard, ef he is after Hardy’s he’ll likely git it. 
Never heard o’ Hubbard goin’ after anything an’ not 
gettin’ it, did ye? An’ ef he ain’t— why he ain’t, thet’s 
all.” 

The Colonel nodded his head vigorously to assure him- 
self of the last statement. 

“I’ll have to work it out my own way, I guess.” Gil- 
bert rose to go. “But,” he added, his lips smiling but 
his eyes fixed soberly on the Colonel’s, “whatever that is, 
I know you’ll help me.” 

The Colonel pushed the arms of his chair and hopped to 
his feet in spite of his rheumatism. He took Jack’s big 
hand. 

“Ef ye wuz to try to move Pike’s Peak into Connecti- 
cut,” he said half complainingly, “I reckon I’d hev to git 
a crowbar an’ help. But go slow, boy, go slow an’ watch 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 45 


the bushes; don’t trust anybody but yerself and don’t 
trust yerself out o’ yer own sight. Ye’ve done well an’ 
ye’re doin’ well,” he went on, his anxiety showing in his 
voice. “ I don’t want to see ye do as yer father did ” 

“I don’t want to do any better, Colonel,” said Jack 
quietly, putting his hand on the old man’s arm. 

“No,” said the Colonel slowly. “I don’t know ez ye 

do. Gawd bless him ” and they were silent for a 

moment. 

He stood at the door until Jack was out of sight, admir- 
ing and worrying, for, although he would not have 
admitted that he cared much for anyone, he loved Jack 
like a father. 

As for Gilbert, he forgot his problem just outside the 
gate, in boyish enthusiasm at the sunset that threw its 
red radiance over the hill’s summit and crowned the great 
gray house of his memories with glittering color. Even 
if there had been no sunset to set his pulses thrilling with 
a sudden joy in life, he would have forgotten the shops 
and their future when he came in sight of home. His 
mother opened the door of their modest cottage as soon 
as he came in sight, and stood watching him as he hurried 
up the walk. She was little changed. Gray hair, it is 
true, sprinkled the brown-gray threads that the years had 
woven out of peaceful dream textures. There were 
creases about her mouth and eyes, marks of her calm, 
almost unceasing smile, and the tears she had shed had 
only made her eyes, still unhidden by glasses, more 
steady and kind. The same musical voice greeted him. 

“The afternoon has gone very slowly, laddie.” 

“Oh, no, mither,” laughed Jack, putting his arm about 


46 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


her waist and leading her into the little dining-room. 
“ It’s gone so fast that I couldn’t get to you until it was 
‘clane gone intoirely,’ as Moriarty says.” 

“That’s the way with you men,” she said reproachfully, 
after they had seated themselves at the big dining table 
which Mrs. Gilbert had refused to give up when they left 
the old house and which nearly filled the little room. 
“Things to do and folks to see, while the women sit and 
knit and think, or sew and think, or make beds and think 
or do nothing but think. Ah, laddie, I’m sorry for the 
poor women who have anything but pleasant thoughts 
like mine.” 

“You make your thoughts pleasant, mither,” said Jack, 
beaming at her over the fine old china and the simple 
meal. 

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Gilbert earnestly. “I’m strong 
and well; how many women are that? Everyone is good 
to me and everyone is good to few women; and then I 
have you, laddie, and no other woman has you. It’s a 
bonnie world,” and she smiled tenderly at him. 

“ I believe if you were set alone on a barren island you’d 
still be happy,” said Jack. 

“ No, I wouldn’t,” answered his mother. “ But I’d have 
pleasant memories,” she added more slowly. 

Then, noticing with a woman’s keen glance that Jack 
looked tired, she broke off into a recital of her day’s work, 
filling it so full of merry anecdotes and clever insight into 
the good queer sides of people she had seen that Gilbert 
was soon laughing heartily. They waited on each other, 
each anticipating the other’s wishes, and often she caught 
him watching for a hint of some service to be performed, 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


47 


and often she gave the hint with enough secrecy to let him 
think he had discovered it himself. When they were done 
he helped her to take the dishes to the neat little kitchen 
with its old-fashioned sinks and modern gas stoves. 

“There,” she said, when the last of the fine old china 
had been stacked by the sink and the last bits of cold 
meat had been put away, “I’m going to leave those 
dishes until to-morrow morning, for to-night, laddie, is 
father’s night.” 

Jack nodded, and going to a closet in the sitting-room 
he brought forth a packet he had taken from the bank 
vault the day before. Together they undid it, and, sit- 
ting on the broad sofa, they went over the enclosures one 
by one. There was a daguerreotype taken in winter 
quarters in ’64, and the central figure in uniform looked 
much like Jack; there was the discharge with twenty-six 
battles entered on it; and a few letters which no one but 
Mrs. Gilbert had ever read ; and then in natural sequence 
their marriage certificate, a number of notes from patients 
who wrote their gratitude in lieu of payment, a packet of 
unsettled bills, an old Spanish knife which Jack’s grand- 
father had given the Doctor, and many other odds and 
ends, the last of which were some certificates of mining 
stock and a letter saying that the company had failed, the 
letter the Doctor had taken from the post-office twenty 
years before. They went over them silently, reverently. 

“Why did father buy the mining stock?” asked Jack, 
fingering the certificates. He knew, but he knew also 
that she would like to tell him. 

“ It was for you, laddie,” said his mother .quietly. “ He 
panted you to be jich and famous.” 


48 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“I wonder why he wished those things for me,” said 
Jack musingly. “He never thought of them himself.” 

“Ah, that's where you're wrong,” said his mother 
quickly. “ Men, the best of them, are always wanting to 
do what it isn't in them to do. David wasn’t the kind to 
make money, so down in his heart he wanted to. He was 
so modest he shrank from seeing his name in the paper, 
so in his inmost soul he thought fame must be a very fine 
thing. It isn't the thing they can put their hand on that 
most men want, but something that's far out of reach. 
I'm sometimes afraid you’re the same at heart, laddie. I 
mind how as a child you always wanted the sugar-bowl 
that was at the other end of the table.” 

Jack smiled rather guiltily as he thought of the after- 
noon. 

“ But with him it was all for you. I sometimes think I 
was almost jealous of you and him because you thought so 
much of each other. And that’s the big reason why I 
wish he was here to-night, to see you as you are now, 
laddie.” And then, suddenly, she cried quietly into an old 
lace handkerchief. Jack put his arm about her shoulders 
and waited. After a moment she looked up at him and a 
rainbow of a smile broke out on the tear-stained face. 

“You won't care, laddie, if your mither has one good 
cry a year,” she said, “so long as it’s a happy one. Do 
you mind how you said you'd take care of me and you no 
higher than that?” and she put out her hand three feet 
from the floor. “ Well, you’ve done it and it's cost you a 
deal of sacrifice, and he'd be very glad.” 

“ But I'm neither rich nor famous,” he said lightly, as 
he began to tie up the packet. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


49 


“ Which are only incidental.” 

“ Wouldn’t you like to live in the old house, mither?” 
suggested Jack insinuatingly. 

“ Well, I’d not say I wouldn’t,” said Mrs. Gilbert with 
a sigh. “ But this does very well.” 

Just then the telephone bell rang and Jack answered it. 
He came back after a moment with a thoughtful look on 
his face. 

“What was it?” asked Mrs. Gilbert curiously. 

“Only Billy McNish asking me not to mention some- 
thing he spoke of this afternoon.” 

“ He’s a careless, good lad,” said Mrs. Gilbert. “ Well? ” 
she asked after a moment. 

“But he doesn’t wish me to mention it, mither,” 
laughed Jack. 

“He wouldn’t mind your telling your mither,” said 
Mrs. Gilbert, “and if he did he oughtn’t to have told you. 
“However,” she went on with a sigh, after waiting a 
moment more for Jack to surrender, “you’re probably 
right to keep your word.” 

Jack did not go to bed immediately in his square front 
bedroom. He took a pile of loose papers from his worn 
desk and studied over them for nearly an hour. Then he 
lit a pipe, and rested his long legs on a chair opposite and 
thought, his eyelids half shut as if to concentrate his gaze 
into the future. And when he knocked the ashes out of 
his pipe and went to bed, he thought he had made up his 
mind, although he probably would not have admitted 
even to himself that he had been influenced by the mem- 
ory of a quaint little girl, with whom he had played in the 
old garden long ago. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE ENTHUSIASMS OF JIMMY O’ROURKE 

TER dinner one Sunday afternoon two or three 



weeks later, Mrs. Gilbert seemed restless. Twice 


she went to the front window and twice she 
returned with the same remark to Jack, who sat smoking 
in the back parlor. 

“You should go out for a walk, laddie. Tis a fine, 
bright day.” 

Gilbert smiled whimsically at her insistence. It had 
become her habit on Sunday afternoons recently, to send 
him out for walks or for some other diversion while she 
invariably remained alone at home. 

“Will you come along, mither?” he asked, as he arose 
and lazily yawned. 

“No, no,” said his mother quickly. “I’ll stop here 
and write a letter or two.” 

Gilbert breathed deep of the fresh spring air outside 
and started down the street with long strides. Soon, 
however, he doubled back, and hurrying down along the 
side of the cottage, stealthily keeping to the grass, he let 
himself in quietly at the side door. From there he tip- 
toed through the dining-room, and listened to the tap- 
tap of his mother’s foot in the next room — the regular 
tap-tap which meant that something was interesting her 
deeply. Then he threw the door open quickly and stepped 


50 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 51 


in, just in time to see her slip something beside her in the 
chair. 

“ My, but you startled me, laddie!” said Mrs. Gilbert, 
staring up at him innocently. “ And I was just a-thinking 
of you.” 

For answer Jack leaned over her and caught up a book 
hidden away between the folds of her dress and the 
chair arm. It was Dumas — the wonderful old “ Monte 
Cristo.” 

“I wanted to make sure that I’d left you in good 
company,” said Gilbert, smiling boyishly down at his 
mother, who seemed to be rather enjoying her guiltiness. 

“I was afraid you’d think I’d come to my second 
childhood,” she confessed. “There’s no time for me to 
read all the week, and I left him last week just where he’d 
come back. Run on with you now, for I want to see 
what he does.” 

And Gilbert “ran on,” laughing, remembering how he 
had stayed up until after three in the morning some years 
before to find out the very same thing. 

“A fine, bright day.” There was certainly no doubt 
about that. The zest of it went to his head like wine and, 
intoxicated, he gave himself over to the mere fugitive im- 
pressions of things as he marched briskly down the long 
hill. He felt about him the tense quiet of the Sunday; 
even the trees whispered as if they were restrained by a 
strange awe, and the birds sang single notes and then 
seemed to listen as if for fear of punishment for a sacri- 
lege. The roses were out in the old garden, for he caught 
the remembered scent amid all the confused fragrance 
that crept out over Mr. McNish’s level green lawn. As 


52 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


he looked across at Hardy's house his eye caught a flash of 
red at one of the tower windows, and he looked away 
quickly, wondering vaguely if it might be the little girl 
who had grown up. He saw a new bird's nest in the 
eaves of the Colonel's porch, and laughed to himself as he 
thought of the irascible veteran's probable language when 
he, in turn, discovered it. 

At the Center he saw blonde-haired Miss Smith, the 
pretty typewriter girl at Hardy's, her full figure showing 
to its best advantage in tight-fitting black, making her 
way to the terminal of the trolley lines where a number of 
cars stood, already packed with people who were out to 
make the most of the holiday sunshine. And, as he 
walked on, he smiled so broadly that people meeting him 
smiled unconsciously as they watched him. He was 
thinking of the Colonel's roughhewn rules of life. “ When 
ye find a real man,” the Colonel had said, “grip him hard. 
Ef he turns on ye, shoot him; ef he's straight, die fer him. 
Don’t shoot yer mouth off reg'lar; keep a lot o’ ammuni- 
tion and fire when ye see the whites o' their eyes. Don't 
be scairt o' doin’ anything except what ain’t square, but 
ef a woman comes near ye, run like hell.” Gilbert always 
remembered this last clause whenever he saw Gerty 
Smith. There was something humanly fascinating about 
her that made him realize the meaning of the Colonel's 
warning. “There's only two calamities open to ye, my 
boy,” the veteran had continued, “death an' marriage. 
Wait for both until ye’re old an' philosophical.” Surely 
he, John Gilbert, needed little advice about marriage. 
Here he was at twenty-nine with his heart as unscathed 
as it was innocent. “Troubles enough of my own,” he 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


53 


muttered good-humoredly to himself, “ without adding on 
somebody's else, even if there were a somebody else." 

“ Good-day, Mister Gilbert." 

Jack looked up to see the pompous bob from a pudgy, 
clean-shaven person clothed in a startlingly bright suit of 
large checks. The loud voice continued: 

“ Splendid weather for the President's shoe blackin'. 
Still use it!" The man looked down proudly at his shin- 
ing shoes. “ Reckon you'll never forget my blackin', eh? " 

“ Certainly made an impression on me that night," 
laughed Jack as he moved on. It was the street fakir of 
Common Council night, whose commercial possibilities 
Mr. Tubb, who ran a huge night lunch wagon in addition 
to his store, had been quick to realize; and who, the morn- 
ing after, had given up without any seeming reluctance 
his precarious sales of Diamond Shoe Blacking to put on 
a white apron behind the counter of the “ Excelsior" lunch 
cart. Peter Lumpkin, for such was his name, was already 
a town character and the lunch cart was doing a thriving 
business. He had merely transferred his performance 
from one wagon to another, and often now the mega- 
phonic voice re-echoed up and down Main Street and put 
even passers-by in good humor. 

Soon Gilbert left the long, curving street for the road 
that led to Clear Lake. It had been an aimless choice, 
and now he drifted on beside the dusty roadway, where 
huge sumach bushes stood out between him and the sun, 
and where golden-rod twisted about his ankles. A 
crowded electric car went spinning by him, and Simpson, 
his superintendent at Hardy's, leaned out and waved to 
him. And a few minutes later Gilshannon of the News 


54 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


drew up alongside him on a bicycle, and rode back and 
forth across the road loafingly, that he might tell the big 
fellow some of the day’s happenings. It was a bully good 
world, after all, Gilbert thought, as he tramped on alone 
after the reporter had pushed forward once more. 

Looking up some minutes later, he saw half-a-dozen 
branches, heavily laden with early astrakhan apples, lean- 
ing over the roadside. With an unreasoning boyish elation 
he scrambled up the high bank and over a fence rail into 
somebody’s property, and promptly climbed to the first 
broad crotch above. It seemed to him that he had sud- 
denly climbed back into his boyhood as he filled his pock- 
ets with the round ripe fruit, and he wondered joyfully if 
the owner would not suddenly appear and chase him 
down the Sunday-silent road. He was so deep in his 
fancies, indeed, that he did not hear the hoof-beats or the 
rumble of the wheels until they were almost beneath him. 
Then he crouched back suddenly and the bough creaked 
under his heavy weight, and one shining apple was shaken 
from the end of the limb and dropped in Clare Hardy’s 
lap. Startled, she glanced up straight at the tree, straight 
at him it seemed, and then disappeared, with Billy Me Nish 
who was busy with the horses, behind the partly thrown 
back buggy top. Gilbert watched the retreating carriage 
until it disappeared behind the curve beyond. Then he 
clambered down and over the fence and into the road 
again, laughing to himself over his narrow escape. She 
couldn’t have seen him, he assured himself as he strolled 
along, munching at one of the apples, that tasted sweeter 
because it had been taken in the old boy’s way. And 
Billy, bless him, hadn’t even turned his head. Then he 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 55 


thought of that fat pink apple that lay half hidden in the 
robe over her knees. He had given it to her, he mused, 
not as plain John Gilbert who worked in her father’s 
shops to Miss Hardy, but as Jack, the small fool of a boy, 
to the little girl over the hedge. At any rate, he decided 
with a chuckle, he had kept his distance in presenting the 
gift. But soon his fancies grew lazy. He listened to the 
crooning of the insects and the chirping of the birds, and 
he walked on and on in a waking dream. 

Clear Lake lies in a hollow between the hills about five 
miles from Hampstead Center. Its smooth surface mir- 
rors the rugged evergreen heights that jut out above it, 
and the place, when people are there, is haunted with 
weird echoes. The Street Railway Company recently 
extended its lines to the lake side, and a more or less pre- 
tentious casino was built at the terminal. The road 
around the lake was improved, and cheap board pagodas 
were placed here and there at the water’s edge. The old 
roundabout path up to the top of the highest crag of the 
ridge at the left, “The Lookout,” as it was called, was 
left untouched, but a new, more direct climb was made, 
straight up the face of the rock, with rough wood stairs 
here and there to bridge over the impassable places. Of 
the crowds that came out from Hampstead on bright 
Sundays and holidays, however, few lost their breath and 
strained their muscles for the wonderful view from “The 
Lookout.” The vast majority were content with mild 
flirtations along the level, winding road, or with seats in 
the pagodas, or with the revelries in the boats or the bowl- 
ing alley or the swings or around the open-air lunch 
tables. It was toward “The Lookout,” therefore, that 


56 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Gilbert, whom the glittering of the lake through the trees 
and the cries of many children had suddenly awakened 
from his dreams, was directing his way when he was way- 
laid by Jimmy O’Rourke. Jimmy was an office-boy at 
Hubbard’s factory and a person of huge enthusiasms. 
Gilbert was one of Jimmy’s enthusiasms, partly because 
he played a good game of baseball in the factory league, 
partly because he was large and strong while Jimmy him- 
self was, in his own language, “a sawed-off little runt,” 
and partly because Gilbert was the only grown man he 
knew who treated him with the respect his Irish blood 
told him he ought to demand from everyone. 

“ What are you doing out here, Jimmy? ” asked Gilbert, 
as the boy tried laboriously to keep step with the big 
fellow’s long strides. 

“Oh, I’m just hikin’ ’em over, sir.” Jimmy flicked the 
ash from his cheap cigarette with self-conscious cynicism. 

“Looking whom over?” 

“Why, de girrls, av coorse. Say, dere perty cheesy, 
most av thim, but dere’s wan peach. Dere she is now.” 
Jimmy pointed toward a pagoda only a few yards away, 
and his voice sank into a whisper. “De wan in black. 
She hits de typewriter down at your place. Say,” Jimmy 
stopped and stared up at Gilbert with a sudden inspira- 
tion. “Why don’t ye get next?” 

“Think it would be a good idea, Jimmy?” Gilbert’s 
face was perfectly sober. 

“Yep,” returned the boy judiciously, “an’ you’d win 
out hands down. Everybody looks up when she goes by, 
all right. Why, say, I was up to de bank de oder day — 
Boss sent me up fer some papers — and she was dere. An’ 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 57 


say, de Mayor was a lukin’ at her somethin’ more’n busi- 
ness-like, you bet. I cud see troo de glass all right. He 
fooled me all right about de papers, tho’. He sealed ’em 
up so tight an’ luked at me so harrd, I was lukin’ fer 
somethin’ interestin’, but it wasn’t nothing but a lot o’ 
figures on Hardy’s station’ry.” 

“You seem to know pretty nearly everything that’s 
going on.” Gilbert stood now at the beginning of the 
ascent to “The Lookout.” 

“I keep me eyes open, you bet.” Jimmy’s tone was 
full of conscious pride. “Goin’ up, sir? I may see you 
later, but now I got a feller to meet on de barrel business.” 
Jimmy sold both old barrels and newspapers in his leisure 
moments. 

Gilbert climbed slowly the first long flight of wooden 
steps. Once in among the trees of the hillside the air 
grew cool. The odor of fresh evergreens mingled with 
the scent of the wet green leaves, that dangled in the 
waters of the mountain brook gurgling down over its 
rocky bed to the lake. From the top of the steps he 
emerged upon an upward stretch of smooth sod, treach- 
erously slippery with pine needles and moss, where a 
thick sprinkling of trees alone kept him from slipping 
back with every few steps toward the edge of the cliff he 
had just ascended. Prodding his heels deep into the 
earth and pulling himself along by an occasional tree 
trunk, he toiled steadily upward. Now and then he 
paused to get his breath and to wipe the perspiration 
from his forehead. He was deep in thought now, for 
Jimmy had turned him back from the peaceful Sunday 
afternoon and its vagrant fancies to the shops and the 


58 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


daily duties of life. It was not until he reached the crag 
beyond, therefore, that he noticed that the flight of steps, 
which usually reached up its steep side, was gone. The 
Winter snows and the Spring rains had evidently rotted 
the wood and loosened the supports, for the framework 
had fallen and lay, a tangled mess of rotten debris, in the 
brook which here ran along the base of the cliff. A few 
steps of the lower portion leaned in a straggling zig-zag 
against the rock’s face, and Gilbert, steadying them with 
some small boulders, mounted to the top of the wreck. 
Reaching upward he found that his hands were still three 
or four feet from the upper ledge. He knew the place 
well. There was no way around, for the cliff was a long 
barrier, and the woods beneath it, a wilderness. 

Turning back he found a soft bed of pine needles at the 
left of the path, from which a large evergreen cut off the 
edge of sun which still gleamed over the ledge above. 
There, pulling another of his stolen apples from a pocket, 
he threw himself down at full length. He decided philo- 
sophically that he was glad the steps were gone. Above 
there were distractions: the broad view with its changing 
colors on hill and water and, very likely, people as well, 
who had climbed up by the old path. Here he could think 
quietly. There was one joy greater than being with peo- 
ple when one wished to be with people, he assured him- 
self, and that was to be alone when one wished to be 
alone. Here the intermittent hammer of a woodpecker 
in the thicket at his left and, from far below, the voices 
of men singing on the water alone reached him. 

Hardy stationery filled with figures and sent from 
Brett to Mr. Hubbard. Jimmy O’Rourke had thought 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


59 


the thing innocent enough. Perhaps it was. Gilbert 
shook his head over a particularly large bite of his apple 
and felt certain that the thing was not innocent. Hub- 
bard was finding out how matters stood with Hardy & 
Son. Brett was secretary of the company and could tell 
him much that he might wish to know. There were some 
things, however, that only Hardy knew, things that were 
locked up in Hardy’s head and Hardy’s desk and Hardy’s 
personal correspondence. And directly there entered this 
girl, this Gerty Smith at whom everybody looked when 
she passed, as Jimmy declared. She was Hardy’s sten- 
ographer. Was Brett that kind of a man? Gilbert asked 
himself the question. Had he any right to think that the 
girl was untrustworthy? Was it any of his business, 
anyhow? He raised himself on his left hand and sent the 
apple core whirling straight at a tree about twenty yards 
down the way he had come. It smashed up against the 
trunk and fell in pieces. As it struck, Gilbert was startled 
by a suppressed exclamation from above and behind him. 
He half turned and leaned out inquisitively beyond the 
edge of his evergreen shelter. Then he pulled himself up 
to a sitting posture and brushed his clothes frantically as 
he slowly rose to his feet. When he stepped out from 
behind the evergreen he was conscious that his face was 
flushed and that his heart was beating more rapidly than 
it should. 

“Oh,” said a voice with that blurring richness that 
Gilbert remembered well, “it is Mr. Gilbert.” 

She had turned back as if to run away from the sudden 
appearance of man in the silent place, but now she re- 
turned to the edge of the cliff. She made a rare picture 


60 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


as she stood there, her lithe, slender figure in its simple 
shirt-waist and short gray outing skirt, her dark, almost 
olive cheeks brightened with an unwonted flush, her 
black eyes sober but her full lips parted in a faint sugges- 
tion of a smile, and strands of the wind-tossed, jet-black 
hair sweeping her forehead. Her arms were filled with 
laurel, its pink-tipped blossoms creeping up caressingly 
about her neck. Behind her lay the background of dark 
green moving idly in the breeze above, and at her feet 
the perpendicular gray rock. 

“ Be careful how you step, Miss Hardy,” warned Gilbert 
involuntarily. “The moss is slippery.” 

The black eyebrows almost met in a frown, and the girl, 
with a slight toss of her head, took a short step nearer the 
edge of the cliff. 

“ I sha’n’t slip,” she said decisively; “ but will you please 
tell me how I can get down?” 

“I don’t know.” Gilbert was smiling. “I’ve been 
wondering how I was going to get up.” 

Neither the remark nor the smile seemed to please the 
girl. 

“That’s really not half as important,” she remarked 
with some irritation. “Billy — Mr. McNish, I should say 
— and I had an argument up on “The Lookout” as to 
which was the better way to come down and I — well, I’ve 
either to come this way now or give in. There must be 
some way,” she said petulantly. 

Gilbert looked about him, thinking rapidly to find 
some way out of the difficulty. Then, shaking his head, 
he stared at the blank face of the rock, noting its slight 
slope toward the top and the roughness of its surface, 


THE BALANCE OF POWER Cl 


which here and there showed short jagged prominences 
and indentations. 

“I should think/’ called the girl tauntingly, “that a 
man who can climb other people’s apple trees might ” 

But Gilbert had made up his mind. He mounted the 
steps that he had already made steady, and caught almost 
recklessly at the first protruding bits of rock that might 
serve for the grip of his hand or for a foothold. 

“Oh,” whispered the girl, catching her breath. “I 
didn’t really mean it.” 

Slowly Jack pulled himself upward, his teeth set and 
his eyes alight with the struggle of it. And it was a 
struggle. Crevices that had looked to be deep from the 
path were narrow and slippery now as he tried them, and 
jagged pieces of rock that seemed large enough for his 
whole hand he found now only catching the tips of his 
fingers. Once he slipped, and a sibilant drawing in of 
breath above him helped him to catch again the grip he 
had lost. Once he stopped for breath, his great body 
stretched like a huge spider across the gray side of the 
rock. But at last one big hand, its fingers bleeding from 
one or two surface cuts, grasped the upper ledge, and 
a moment later he dragged himself over the moss-soft- 
ened edge. 

“I— I didn’t— think-— you— saw me,” he declared, 
breathing hard. 

“Saw you — why ” 

“ In the apple tree, I mean.” 

“Oh.” 

There was a slight pause. 

“I’ll get my breath in a minute.” 


62 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“You — you oughtn’t to have done it.” 

“No, I suppose not. But the apples looked mighty 
good. He’ll never miss ’em — the man that owns the 
tree, I mean.” 

“But I meant — this.” 

Clare Hardy pointed down over the cliff. 

“It was foolhardy,” she went on severely, “and, 
besides, it didn’t help me a bit. It was only taking a 
dare. You are strong, though, Mr. Gilbert.” 

Gilbert’s breath was coming more easily now, and he 
leaned over, examining closely the rock he had climbed. 
Then he turned and slid down over the edge, digging his 
feet in until they caught and he clung there, his broad 
shoulders still above the upper ledge. 

“What are you going to do now?” gasped the girl. 

“I’m going to take you down. Sit down, please,” 
ordered Gilbert, “right at the edge, with your back to 
me.” 

“No,” the girl shook her head, rebellious in her heart 
at the command of his voice. As she looked at him, 
however, she thought she saw a critical, quizzical smile in 
his gray eyes. 

“I’m not afraid,” she declared as if in answer. Then 
she hesitated, and a tide of pink ran into her cheeks. 

“Of course not.” 

She stared at him questioningly for another minute. 
It was absurd, she told herself. She could not stand there 
forever with this big man smiling up at her, and she would 
not go back up to “ The Lookout, ” leaving him there hang- 
ing to the rock. It was evident from that set jaw of his 
that he would wait until he had his way. And there was 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 63 


Billy. She surrendered quickly and sat down as he had 
bade her. With a last look backward at the rough steps 
he must use, he put his arm about her waist and swung her 
clear. The descent would be slower than the upward 
climbing had been, and harder, he knew. The girl’s 
weight quickly became like lead to his straining arm, and, 
with only one hand free, he was forced to lie flat on the 
slightly sloping rock and to make his steps short and sure. 
As he groped his way downward he felt stray wisps of her 
hair against his neck, and he realized that her face was 
pressed against his shoulder. She had caught one down- 
ward glimpse and, suddenly frightened, had blotted it 
all out against his protecting arm. He felt a sudden 

thrill as the sense of the clinging girl’s nearness came to 
% 

him. An elemental something within him made his arm 
tighten about her, but he did not realize it until his toes 
touched the wood of the steps. Then his grasp loosened 
mechanically, and he drew away to let her pass down be- 
fore him, with a deep red in his cheeks that was not alto- 
gether the red of exertion. 

“I think I should know better than to ever dare you 
again.” Clare Hardy’s cheeks were flushed, also, as she 
stood looking up at him from the bottom of the steps. 
“ Now — I think — I’ll hurry on and find — Mr. McNish. 1 It’s 
— it’s only to keep one’s nerves at a strain,’ you know.” 
Gilbert nodded as she turned away. 

And, baffled, get up and begin again.’ ” 

She started slightly with surprise. He knew something 
of Browning then, this man who worked in her father’s 
shops. Then the mark of the unerringly thrown core on 
a tree before her caught her eye. 


64 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ And, oh/’ she called out, turning back, her eyes danc- 
ing, “ I meant to tell you. I liked my apple.” 

"It was stolen,” he retorted. He was still standing at 
the top of the steps, and as she hurried on down the path 
she could still see the picture of the large, broad-shoul- 
dered, awkward figure standing out against the great 
gray rock, with the brook and the trees and the sky for a 
frame, and it impressed her with a sense of grim strength, 
eternal determination, immovable firmness. 

For some minutes after she disappeared — how long he 
did not know — Gilbert stood where she had left him, on 
the top of the steps, his back to the rock. It had been 
only a few seconds ago, it seemed to him, since he was 
sprawling in the shelter of that evergreen yonder. He 
went over and over again each detail of their conversa- 
tion. He felt again the scraping of the rock. He remem- 
bered — yes, the whole thing had been foolhardy. He had 
been dared by a girl’s whim and yet, he smiled to himself, 
he was entirely glad that he had done it. She was not so 
different from the little girl of the old garden after all, 
and she liked the apple. 

The melody of a popular song, shrilly whistled with the 
disjointed rhythm of scanty breath, from the path below 
warned him, and he had scarcely descended a step or two 
before Jimmy O’Rourke appeared at the turn below. 
The melody ceased instantly, and in its place came a long 
whistle that descended an octave in surprise. 

"Hello,” called Jimmy, as he came panting up the 
incline. “Say, ye luk like Umslop-and-so-forth about 
to break de sacred stone. — Did ye ever read Allan Qua- 
termain? — Only he was a nigger. Say,” he rattled on, 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 65 


“who d’ye tink I just saw? Miss Hardy. Sure thing. 
An’ she near slipped down. Say/’ Jimmy grew confi- 
dential, “she’s de goods. She kin travel on my ticket as 
fer as it goes. Say, she bowed to me. She did. Dat’s 
a fac’.” 

Gilbert looked at the boy with a sober, almost anxious 
face. He was bathing his bruised fingers in the brook. 

“Jimmy,” he remarked, “I’m a fool.” 

“Whatcher talkin’ about?” scowled Jimmy. 

“I ought to have gone down with her, that’s all.” 

Light suddenly broke in upon Jimmy as he noticed 
the broken stairway. 

“ ’Course — you seen her too. But say, what’s de mat- 
ter wid yer clothes, an’ who busted de staircase, an’ ” 

“If an elephant chases a monkey up a match stick,” 
drawled Gilbert, “who owns the farm? Jimmy, I’m 
going home.” 

Jimmy O’Rourke, frankly puzzled, frowned up at the 
big man. 

“ Say, I’ll go wid ye,” he said at last, judiciously. 


CHAPTER Y 


THE DROWNING OF A DISAPPOINTMENT 

W HEN the door closed behind his stenographer, 
Mr. Hardy opened a lower drawer in his desk, 
and helped himself from a small flask and 
glass he kept secreted there under lock and key. Then he 
lit the stub of a partly smoked cigar, rang her bell once 
more, and wrote his name busily three of four times across 
a blank sheet of paper. He was too occupied to look up 
when she appeared. 

“You needn’t open my mail for me after this, Miss 
Smith.” 

The stenographer grimaced at his broad back. 

“Yes, sir,” she said sweetly. “Of course I only did it 
to help you.” 

“I know,” nodded Mr. Hardy, “but I’ll do it for my- 
self from now on.” 

As soon as she was gone he leaned back thoughtfully. 
He was one of those men who cannot bear a pretty 
woman’s ridicule, and Miss Gerty Smith, during her eight 
months at Hardy & Son’s, had almost terrorized him at 
times with her pert smile that was always half sneer. 
This order about his mail had been given not because he 
was in the least suspicious of Miss Smith. Mr. Hardy 
had never been suspicious of women. He had always 
looked upon them as quite too insignificant to require 

66 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


67 


watching. It was rather because he, being an old-fash- 
ioned business man, liked to do everything himself. 
There was even a certain childish joy about slitting the 
envelope edges and wondering what was going to be 
inside. 

A certain matter might be mentioned in his mail at this 
particular time, also, about which he meant no one to 
know; and this feeling was of a piece with the pride that 
had led him in the beginning into the matter itself. 
Briefly, he had found the factory in need of ready money. 
There were large sums owed on the books which would 
more than meet the bills that bothered him, but he never 
had made anyone wait even a day for money owed by 
Hardy & Son* This was business sense as well as pride, 
but his feeling about his large surplus — the feeling that 
had kept him for years from touching that pile of gold for 
any purpose whatever — was pride pure and simple, which 
at last had made the surplus a personal fetich. To 
obtain the ready money, therefore, he had sold the com- 
pany’s notes in New York. He had not asked permission 
of his directors. Hardy & Son’s directors met only when 
they were elected and re-elected. The money he had 
expected was coming in, and he was certain that he could 
meet the notes when they came due. He still had three 
weeks to make up the total amount. He hoped, how- 
ever, that no one in Hampstead or among the trade 
would hear of it. It was the first time since the early 
days of Hardy & Son that he had found himself so strait- 
ened financially. 

The fact did not affect his confidence in the shops, how- 
ever. Sooner or later these Westbury people, who had 


68 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


pressed selling prices down almost to cost, would find their 
money gone and they would give up the losing fight; and 
then Hardy & Son would rise again, prosperous and tri- 
umphant, as it always had risen over the obstacles of the 
past. His flabby red face lost its almost perpetual frown 
as he thought of the eventual failure of this Westbury 
concern. 

Samuel Hardy was one of those men who train them- 
selves to look upon life as a kind of barbaric fight for 
supremacy; a fight in which the joy of victory is made 
keener by the humiliation and distress of those who are 
defeated. Winning of itself was to him justification for 
any course, and to the men who went down in failure he 
always applied the same dogma: “ Served him right.” 
Whether the men opposed to him fought courageously or 
not interested him little. The result alone was important 
— winning or losing. There was nothing of the sports- 
man about him. As he sat at his desk now he heard from 
beyond many closed doors the whirr and hum of machin- 
ery, the crash of heavy drops, the thudding of distant 
drills, the scraping murmur and regular clicking of a 
hundred lathes and automatic machines, the rattle and 
thump of old-fashioned foot presses mingling with the 
noise of great power presses like the purring of immense 
cats; a weird mass of sound, gigantic, chaotic. These 
were his single joy and inspiration. They formed to him 
a huge parade of power: bands playing, the multitude 
shouting, and the tramp, tramp, tramp of an army march- 
ing at his command. He had formed these regiments of 
men and machines; he had drilled them, marshaled them, 
led them day after day and year after year. There had 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 69 


been mutinies, of course — whole lines of machines that 
had refused to work and men who had struck for larger 
wages and for shorter hours — but he had always beaten 
them back into line. 

Through the window the warm June air, scented with 
wild-flower fragrance from the field on which he meant 
some day to build an additional shop, brought its mes- 
sage of peace, but he heard only the striving cries of a gang 
of yard workmen below, and the clang of the iron they 
were moving. He was a man who had refused the happi- 
ness that life offers, and who had tried to replace it with a 
happiness he manufactured for himself. 

From superintendent to under-age boys, whom he 
smuggled into the mill, nearly everyone disliked “Sam” 
Hardy and feared him. The sound of his step, which 
every workman knew as well as he knew the old, frowning 
face, meant for each to work the machine to its utmost, 
with head and shoulders bent and eyes on the task, until 
the echo of the steps died away; and then to breathe 
again and to take things easily and to curse “ the old man ” 
to a neighbor while the machine took care of itself. Trav- 
eling men in the moderate-priced hotels to which he sent 
them, either sneered or trembled, according to their nat- 
ural habit in the face of danger, when they found his letters 
at the desk. And Moriarty was not the only man upon 
whose patents Hardy had infringed when he was certain 
that the patentee had too little money to take the matter 
into the courts. The case of Moriarty had been partic- 
ularly hard, however, because the little Irishman had 
served Hardy well for many years, and he was now fight- 
ing an unequal fight against his old employer, who, with 


70 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


infinitely larger facilities, had paralleled every line of 
Moriarty’s manufacture. Moriarty considered it to be 
personal spite, but he was mistaken. It was what Hardy, 
along with many others, called “ business,” — a synonym 
with them for “any way to win.” 

Mr. Hardy was thinking of Moriarty, and of a threat the 
hot-headed little Irishman had made the last time they 
had met, when there was a knock at the door and there 
entered a pursy, perspiring person who seemed to be 
irritated by a sense of his own importance. Mr. Hardy 
recognized him as the Boston factory expert, who had 
been so persistent and so voluble with promises that, a 
week or two before, Hardy had given him a chance “to 
improve the system and to perfect the economy” — this 
was the expert’s high-sounding phrase — of Hardy & Son. 

“Well, what’s the matter?” Mr. Hardy’s keen, hard 
eyes had disconcerted many who came with juster cause, 
but the newcomer was too angry to notice them. 

“A good deal is the matter,” he sputtered. It is a 
strange fact that people who think that their dignity has 
been trifled with, almost always “sputter,” and so forfeit- 
all claim to the dignity they believe they possess. Petti- 
ness almost always unmasks itself. “I can’t stand the 
impertinence and the interference of your subordinates, 
sir.” 

The visitor drew in his breath sharply and then exhaled 
slowly, blowing out his cheeks as if by way of exhaust for 
his injured feelings. 

“Well?” interjected Mr. Hardy shortly. 

“I moved some machines in the finishing room this 
morning to try an experiment which I think will vastly 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 71 


increase the efficiency of the room. I hadn’t had them 
changed an hour, sir, when that young Gilbert came in 
and looked around and shouted out : ‘ Who moved those 
machines?’ I remarked that I had moved them, and he 
said : ‘ Move ’em back to where you got ’em, and do it 
quick.’ I said in a perfectly gentlemanly way that I 
wanted them to stay there until to-morrow. And would 
you believe it, Mr. Hardy, that common workman came 
up to me and threatened me. ‘Who are you,’ he said, 
‘to move my machines around?’ — ‘his machines,’ do you 
hear, Mr. Hardy? ‘ Now, you move ’em back, and within 
half an hour, or I’ll take you by your neck and your legs 
and throw you out of the shop.’ What do you say to that, 
Mr. Hardy?” 

Mr. Hardy looked musingly into space, while the ex- 
pert from Boston, breathing hard, waited for a vindica- 
tion and for the reprimand or the dismissal of the work- 
man Gilbert. The expert did not know that his moving 
the machines had delayed important work that was being 
pushed through to fill rush orders. His only thought was 
that he was the expert from Boston. 

“Let’s see,” said Hardy finally. “The superintendent 
is away to-day, isn’t he?” 

“I don’t know, sir. That’s not my business.” 

Hardy’s expression hardened, but he went on slowly. 

“Then Gilbert is acting superintendent, isn’t he?” 

There was no reply. 

“How much time did he give you, did you say?” 

“ Half an hour,” choked the expert. 

“And you’ve already lost half of it,” said Hardy. 

“ Yes, sir, but ” 


n THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“I should say, my friend, that you have a good-sized 
job to do in the next fifteen minutes.” 

“But the threat, sir, the threat this man Gilbert made: 
what have you to say to that?” 

“I’ve only got to say that from what I know of Gilbert, 
lie’s likely to do what he says he’ll do.” 

The expert stared at Mr. Hardy unbelievingly for a 
moment, and then, crestfallen, he retired, muttering to 
himself. 

There was a grim smile on “the old man’s” face as he 
swung back to his desk. He remembered many incidents 
in which John Gilbert had figured, and he liked them all; 
but perhaps none of them had appealed to his martial 
business heart as strongly as this humiliation of the pom- 
pous “know-it-all” expert, whose type had always been 
one of Mr. Hardy’s pet aversions. He was in the habit 
of doing things on impulse, and it was characteristic of him 
that, long before the expert’s fifteen minutes had passed, 
Mr. Hardy had pressed one of the buttons that studded 
his desk, and tilted back, smoking, waiting for Gilbert. 
Soon there was a decisive banging at the door, and the 
big, loosely hung figure, which looked bigger and more 
loosely hung in the torn and patched and grease-spotted 
overalls, entered. His solemn face was decorated with 
grime, and his hands were black and rough. The theo- 
retical expert, with his comparatively small knowledge of 
practical factory affairs, was scarcely to be blamed for 
looking upon Gilbert as a common workman. The differ- 
ence between the two men struck Hardy forcibly as he 
looked up at the assistant superintendent. 

“Busy, Jack?” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 73 


The big fellow nodded and took a deep breath at the 
open window by which he stood. 

“First breath I’ve had to-day, Mr. Hardy,” he said, 
and a genial smile lit up the roughly cut, blackened fea- 
tures with a startling contrast that reminded Hardy sud- 
denly of the early morning sun slanting across the uneven 
surface of a stern, rocky western land he had seen years 
before. “If this pace keeps up the machines 'll all have 
nervous prostration in a week.” 

Mr. Hardy came immediately to the point. It was one 
of the qualities Gilbert had always admired in “the old 
man,” this blunt, straight-from-the-shoulder directness. 

“Simpson's left,” he said with jerky abruptness. He 
was watching Gilbert closely, and he saw the young man's 
start of surprise. “Told him not to say anything about 
it. I've known about it a month. He's gone to Hub- 
bard's.” Mr. Hardy frowned over the name. “They're 
welcome to him. Too much of the ‘I think so, maybe,’ 
and the * I hope you’ll approve, Mr. Hardy,' about Simp- 
son to suit me.” 

As a matter of fact, Sam Hardy had thought well of 
Simpson until the superintendent had announced his deci- 
sion to leave, but now, of course, he had changed his mind 
completely. 

“I’ve thought about a man from outside,” he went on, 
“some fellow with new ideas, some fellow who'd made a 
study of factories. Thought perhaps you was too young. 
Guess I was wrong. How'd you like to tackle it?” 

“I'd like it, Mr. Hardy.” Gilbert's eyes were bright 
and his jaw was set decisively. “And I think I can do 
it.” 


74 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Mr. Hardy swung back to his desk with business-like 
energy. 

“That’s settled,” he said gruffly. “You’re boss. No- 
body’s to interfere with you. We’ll talk about salary in 
a month or two. That’s all, Jack.” 

But Gilbert was not ready to go. It seemed to him 
that the opportunity he had been waiting for, the oppor- 
tunity he had been trying to make for himself, to lay 
before Mr. Hardy all the plans he had formulated for the 
shops, had come, and he seized it. A few moments later, 
at Mr. Hardy’s own suggestion — Hardy had been unwill- 
ingly overborne by the young man’s enthusiasm — he re- 
appeared before the astonished president with a bundle 
of papers, containing the drawings and estimates he had 
been working over quietly for more than a year. He 
unrolled the precious sheets almost tenderly, and for a 
half hour Mr. Hardy listened to his rapid explanations. 
And the president, in spite of his immediate inward deci- 
sion, did not stop him. He realized dimly that what 
Gilbert said was true, and that it was not the talk of a 
theorist but the concentrated experience of a practical 
man of the mills. 

“Cost too much money,” was his laconic conclusion 
when Gilbert had finished. “Impossible.” And this was 
the answer with which he met each succeeding argument. 
“Can’t spend a cent except on repairs for a year or two. 
Save it till then.” 

A year or two. By that time, as things were going now, 
Gilbert groaned to himself, the shops would be in infinitely 
worse condition than at present. By that time, if his 
intuition was correct, they might be in Hubbard’s hands. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 75 


But Mr. Hardy had already dismissed him and his plans, 
and was again turning to the desk. Again Gilbert was 
not ready to go. He had carried out only part of his 
decision made weeks before. He had yet to tell Mr. 
Hardy his feeling about Hubbard — the feeling which, 
although it was based on conjecture, had been growing 
into a definite conviction. He had realized, when he 
decided to warn “the old man,” that Hardy might not 
take his interference kindly, and he realized it more 
clearly as, leaning on the desk top and looking down at 
the president, he saw the flabby face turn from red to 
purple as he talked, and a big hand doubled up until it 
lay like a mallet on the blotter. But this did not matter 
to Gilbert. It was the thing which, right or wrong, — and 
he believed it to be right — he had decided to do. There- 
fore he did it without a thought of flinching. Mr. Hardy 
interrupted him before he had spoken many sentences. 

“ That’s enough. I didn’t hire you to advise me about 
running this shop. I hire you to be superintendent, and 
I can fire you just as quickly as I hire you, and don’t you 
forget it.” Hardy’s eyes met Gilbert’s and he hesitated. 
When he spoke again his voice had lost its angry growl 
and was almost apologetic. “Run along now, Jack, and 
boss your machines, but don’t try to boss me. And, 
look here, don’t ever talk to me again about something 
that isn’t any of your business.” 

Gilbert walked out without a word. The first rush of 
anger at the domineering words vanished before a hu- 
morous admiration for “the old man” himself and his 
unconquerable pride and spirit. In spite of his disap- 
pointment he smiled as he thought of Hardy as a kind 


76 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


of industrial Canute, ordering back alone a tide almost as 
resistless as that of the ocean. It would be mightily 
hard on “the old man,” he thought more soberly, when 
the inevitable happened; mightily hard on “the old 
man” and on everyone connected with him. He caught 

himself thinking of a tall, slender girl looking down 

No, he’d better go back to work and boss the machines, 
as Hardy had said. It was positively sentimental for 
him to have that girl’s face following him about as it had 
followed him ever since Sunday. It bothered him, too, 
that the quaint little girl seemed to have almost disap- 
peared from his memories. He spent half an hour in the 
finishing room over the machines the expert had replaced 
bunglingly, and, when they were working properly, he 
moved his belongings into Simpson’s old office. He 
bundled his precious papers roughly into the desk. Then 
he took them out with greater care and locked them away 
in one of the drawers. 

“I’ll use them yet, you pig-headed old simpleton,” he 
whispered to himself, with a good-natured grin toward the 
president’s office. But at that moment he could not have 
told even himself how. 

When, an hour or more later, the whistle blew he 
“washed up” with the men, as usual. It did not occur 
to him at first to go to his new office with its compara- 
tively clean little wash bowl, and when he did think of it, 
after two or three who had heard the rapidly traveling 
rumor of his advancement shook his hand, he decided im- 
pulsively that he preferred the sociability of the black 
old sink where the fellows he worked with jostled and 
laughed and pounded each other on the back in the joy 



\ 

V 

l 

*1 

\ 


7 ?ww along ?i07v, Jack, and boss you?' machines > to// 

etow’/ //y to tom ?ne.'" 


i i < 





























































































• 










































THE BALANCE OF POWER 77 


of another day’s work done. When he left the shop he 
turned down Main Street toward the Methodist church. 

The Methodist church of Hampstead was a forbidding 
brick structure on Main Street, not far from the beginning 
of West Hill. Its high, tapering steeple stood out over 
the town like a menacing index finger of correction. Be- 
yond the swinging green doors of the inner vestibule with 
their tiny glass windows, through which many young 
knights of the town caught glimpses of their fair ladies 
and waited with palpitating hearts for the last hymn 
and the benediction, the somberness of the rigid pew 
backs and the dark stained-glass windows was relieved 
only by a garish piece of red carpeting on the pulpit and 
the glint of the gilded organ pipes. On one evening in 
each month, however, the Thursday of the last week, a 
sacrilegious odor of steaming coffee stole up into the 
musty vestibule from below, and lured belated brethren 
and their families to the big room in the basement, where 
a picnic repast, prepared by the ladies who “furnished” 
for the church supper, awaited them. There, when the 
preacher finished his blessing, there broke forth such a 
noisy clatter of plates and silver, such a hum of good- 
fellowship over discussions of unimportant and inter- 
esting things, such shrieks of delight from the children at 
the mere suggestions of ice-cream and chocolate cake 
to come, that even sour old Mr. Butterson was forced to 
grit his teeth to keep from smiling. 

Across at a short table by the white- washed wall, on the 
night of this June supper, the solemn young preacher was 
seen to slap Gilbert on the shoulder with something that 
approached heartiness, and Mrs. Brice, his more genial 


78 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


if not his better half, twitted the big fellow about “ some- 
thing that happened at Clear Lake, ” until Gilbert, flush- 
ing fiercely, changed the subject. Mrs. Brice, he knew, 
had been a classmate of Clare Hardy’s at college, and 
their former friendship had been renewed since the 
Brices had come to Hampstead. Next to Mrs. Gilbert 
at the table sat Mr. McNish and Billy — the elder McNish, 
whose kindly soul rejoiced in church suppers, and Billy, 
who had told Gilbert once with characteristic frankness 
that “church suppers were a dead easy way to get next 
to the people and to make a bluff at respectability.” 
Then there was Colonel Mead, who looked across at Gil- 
bert with pathetic resignation from his unsought location 
between little Molly Jethro, who spoke in monosyllables, 
and Mrs. Neely, whom Billy called “a rapid fire gun of 
talk loaded with blanks.” The Colonel seldom appeared 
in the solemn auditorium upstairs. He had sworn off 
sermons when he swore off whiskey thirty years before, 
he declared. During occasional dyspeptic periods he 
railed alternately at the hypocrisy of church people and 
at the dishonesty of secret societies, but he belonged to 
four of the one hundred and one orders with which Hamp- 
stead men decorate themselves, and he always sat at this 
same table in the Methodist church basement on the last 
Thursday evening of the month. And last but never 
least, there was watery-eyed little Neely; local preacher, 
prayer-meeting exhorter, councilman and critic of life. 
The poor fund knew him only too well, for Neely had 
never been able to find steady work, but his fiery phrases 
never faltered, and his ability to find scandal anywhere 
and everywhere made him the friend of all who loved 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 79 


gossip. When Neely was seen buttonholing the preacher 
or Mr. Me Nish there were immediately many good women 
who wished to talk with him confidentially. 

At the moment Neely was discussing the theater. 
That was the primal sink of iniquity. It lured “our 
young men” to sin and to crime. It taught “our young 
women” the ways of wickedness. And yet “some of our 
own people” were attracted by this “superfluity of naugh- 
tiness.” Neely did not like to mention names, but 

Gilbert smiled grimly. He remembered seeing Neely 
convulsed with laughter over a cheap negro comedian in 
the five-cent vaudeville show at Clear Lake. 

The embarrassed Colonel created a diversion by put- 
ting salt in his coffee and milk on his cold meat. 

“We had a fine old general,” put in Mr. McNish, to 
cover the Colonel's confusion, “who was always the pride 
of the boys because he was as calm as a church in the face 
of fire. At Second Bull Run he sat on his horse at the 
most exposed place in the line and calmly read a book. 
Whenever a particularly loud shell 'Id scream over his 
head, he’d turn a page and yawn. Pretty soon one 
took his horse, and when two of the men picked him up 
the book was still in his hand. But we reckoned he 
must 've been absent-minded, too, for the book was 
upside down.” 

As Mr. McNish finished his reminiscence the room be- 
came suddenly quiet. Then whispers, more startling yet 
in the stillness, came from the next table. It is remarkable 
how few people have the courage to hear their own voices 
in a silence. Gilbert turned with the rest to see that 
.nearly every woman ip the place was staring fascinated 


80 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


at the doorway, and that men were moving uneasily in 
their chairs and trying lamely to draw the attention of 
the others away from the same spot. Then a voice, thick 
and maudlin, remarked in tones that carried to the farthest 
ends of the room: 

“ Want t’ see Molly, tha’s all.” 

Gilbert knew the voice even before he saw the red, 
blotched face, and the lurching figure that hung to the 
post at the foot of the stairs, and he turned apprehen- 
sively to Molly Jethro, who, with drawn face, had started 
to rise and then had buried her face in her hands in sudden 
shame. Gilbert had given Jethro the afternoon off that 
day, and he understood now the use to which the council- 
man, who represented labor among “the city fathers/’ 
had put his leisure. He was on his feet quickly, but 
Neely was ahead of him. 

“Mrs. Jethro isn’t here,” he heard Neely say in his oily 
voice. “She’s probably home. You go along and find 
her, Martin, that’s a good man.” 

“ Good man,” muttered Jethro, “ good man. No, you’re 
the good man, always talkin’ about sin an’ devils an’ that 
muck. Molly says you’re so good you ought to be a lesson 
to me. Think o’ that, a lesson to me. An’ all the time I 
know better. I know better. Old Hubbard’s money’s 
just as good to you as ’tis to me, eh, Mr. Neely?” 

The last sentence was said in a whisper, but Neely 
started back against Gilbert with a panic of fear on his face. 

“Stop him,” he panted, “stop him.” 

“Come on out of this, Jethro.” Gilbert linked his arm 
in that of the representative of labor and turned him 
toward the stairs. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 81 


“Oh, it’s the new superintendent,” sneered Jethro. 
“Think you’re better’n we are — but ye ain’t. Runnin’ 
a shop now, aren’t ye? Goin’ to be a capitalist, soon; 
eh, me son? All right. All right. We’ve got ’em on 
the run. First ’twas ten hours a day; then ’twas nine; 
now it’s eight with a good many; then t’ill be seven, an’ 
by an’ by we won’t work at all, an’ we’ll have old Hub- 
bard an’ Hardy a-blackin’ our ” 

Gilbert had not wished to use force, but Jethro hung 
back, determinedly, talking at full voice. 

“Come on, Jethro. You’re making a holy show of 
yourself.” And Jethro felt a pull that made the muscles 
of his arm strain and ache. The preacher came hurrying 
up. 

“I’ve telephoned for the police. They will be here in a 
few minutes,” he said excitedly. 

Whether it was the yanking pull or the police that 
changed Jethro’s mind, his hand dropped from the post 
and they started up the stairs. 

“Telephone to the police — nothing doing,” Gilbert 
remarked over his shoulder to the preacher with a wink 
that even Mr. Brice understood, and the strangely as- 
sorted pair stumbled up and out into the street. 

It was astonishing how interested those pleasant-faced, 
gentle-voiced church women were in Jethro, the moment 
his back was turned. They left their seats and gathered 
at the bottom of the stairs to watch his exit, and a few 
followed his lurching form up into the vestibule, and stood 
in the door until they saw Gilbert help him into a hack 
under the electric light at the corner. Then they went 
back with awed whispers and told each other what they 


82 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


had seen, and stared sympathetically at poor Molly 
Jethro until that sensitive little creature shrunk away 
against the wall. At last Billy McNish, at the risk of his 
popularity , took her away, in the midst of a pitiless silence, 
to the preacher’s study and left her there with Mrs. Brice, 
who had followed Billy’s beckoning nod and her own 
better instincts. 

After that, the gossip became mixed and gradually 
sweetened with chocolate cake, and the children, who had 
been silently listening to the helpful discourses of their 
elders, turned their attention to the ice cream, and the 
atmosphere of the room returned to the normal and 
humdrum. Mr. Neely, however, was still making spiteful 
remarks about Mr. Jethro’s incapacity for telling the 
truth, punctuating them here and there with scriptural 
texts, and watching suspiciously with his watery eyes for 
a sign that anyone had heard the labor councilman’s 
whispered remark. Finally he called Mr. McNish aside, 
and left the Colonel to the mercies of Mrs. Neely and a 
few other ladies, who wanted to know what that voluble 
person thought about how Mrs. Jethro must have felt 
when — and so forth. The poor Colonel pulled at his iron- 
gray mustaches that drooped in a curve like steers’ horns, 
and thought words that are seldom used in churches. 
Mrs. Gilbert had long since left the table for the busier 
kitchen. 

Sometime later, when Gilbert walked into the dimly 
lighted vestibule, he found the Colonel pacing up and 
down in contented solitude. 

“ S’pose I ought to hev stayed down there.” There was 
a gleam in the veteran’s eye as he pointed soberly at the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 83 


floor. “ They jest nachurally can’t tear ye to pieces when 
ye’re with ’em. But I couldn’t stand it any longer.” 

“Stand what?” Gilbert looked at the Colonel absent- 
mindedly. 

“The women folks. Do ye know, boy, I never feel so 
lonesome ez I do when I get left alone with a pack of 
women, ’specially good women. I dassen’t talk fer fear 
I’ll swear er say somethin’ thet ain’t right an’ proper, an’ 
it sure makes me nervous to watch their mouths go, jest 
sayin’ nothin’ at all. Women talk jest like most Injuns 
fight. When they find a point they want to attack they 
creep up to within one hundred yards of it on one side; 
then they do the same on th’ other side; then they try the 
left an’ the right; and then most likely they give a war- 
whoop an’ go runnin’ off without ever attackin’ the point 
they was aimin’ at at all. But say what’d ye do with 
Jethro?” 

“I took him home in a hack.” 

“Ye took him home in a hack I” echoed the Colonel. 
“Ye don’t mean to say ye took that blaguard thet ’Id a 
soiled the dirtiest guardhouse in Fort Benton, that greaser 
thet a decent rope ’Id be ashamed to hev hangin’ to it, 
thet mis’able, no-account pup thet a haff-breed cayuse 
wouldn’t associate with — home in a hack! Home in a 

hack! Well, I’ll be ” The Colonel stopped suddenly 

and looked cautiously about the vestibule. Then he came 
close to Gilbert and shook the whispered word into the 
big fellow’s face, “damned.” 

There was something in Gilbert’s eyes, as he saw them 
now at close range, that made the Colonel finish the word 
quickly. 


84 THE BALANCE OF POWER 

“ I had it all decided when I took hold of him.” Gilbert 
spoke as if with restraint. “ I put him in a hack and took 
him home. He cursed me all the way. I took him inside 
and undressed him, and he went on cursing. Then I tele- 
phoned Gilshannon and the Register to keep it out of the 
papers. Pd decided to do all that, but I came pretty 
near not doing it or doing something else. I didn’t mind 
his cursing. That was amusing. But he said things 
that — well, I never came so near to smashing a man’s 
head in before. I’ve walked off some of it, but I’ve got a 
good deal left. Oh, I’m a fool, I guess, Colonel.” 

And Gilbert left the surprised veteran abruptly and 
went downstairs. The ladies were disappointed in Mr. 
Gilbert that night. He was extraordinarily uncommu- 
nicative. They said to each other that it seemed a great 
pity that someone else had not gone with Mr. Jethro, in 
whom they were all so interested, someone who would 
tell them the rest of the story. But they hovered about 
him until Mrs. Gilbert came to his rescue. As the two 
started out, the elder McNish joined them, but at the 
street door he stopped suddenly. 

“ Forgotten something?” suggested Mrs. Gilbert. 

“The Colonel and Billy,” grimaced Mr. McNish. “I’m 
like Cap’n Sanford of the Seventh Massachusetts — I think 
it was the Seventh. Marched into camp at Kettle Run 
alone. When they asked him where his company was, 
Sanford scratched his head. 'Lordy,’ he said, ‘I knew 
I’d forgotten something.’” 

Colonel Mead was sitting moodily in a corner down- 
stairs, absorbed in an increasing ill-will against the world 
in general; but Billy had disappeared. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 85 


“Some girl, probably.” Mr. McNish chuckled as he 
rejoined the others after a hasty search. “Billy’s like 
Bill Jennings of the Fourth. When we were in camp 
down at Kettle Run, Bill’d come out of his tent at night 
and look around. Then he’d call two or three of the men. 
* Mates,’ he’d say — you see he was before the mast as a 
boy — * there’s a girl or two about five miles and a half 
away north by northwest. Let’s go and make a call.’ 
And the boys said he never failed to make good.” 

They walked home slowly under the stars, Gilbert car- 
rying his mother along on his arm after their usual 
custom, and the stout little Mr. McNish taking two steps 
to one of the gaunt Colonel’s long strides. And for a time 
the pulsing stillness of the night put its seal upon their 
lips. 

“ Jack’s all wrong.” The Colonel was thinking aloud at 
last. “He can’t run men by bein’ good to ’em. He’s got 
to fight. This world ain’t a nursery er a Sundy School, an’, 
I tell ye, the most low-down haff-breed on the Mexican 
border ain’t half as wicked as some o’ these Dagoes 
that ’re workin’ here in the shops. He’s got to fight an’ 
he don’t know it.” 

Mr. McNish hummed a scrap of melody in his cracked 
tenor, as he watched the big figure that loomed ahead of 
them. 

“ I think I’ll be sorry for them when he finds it out,” he 
said. 

“ I caught a gang of ’em yesterday, stealin’ apples in my 
back yard. An’ when I told ’em to go they jest stared at 
me. They couldn’t ’ve understood my remarks. If they 
had, an’ wuz good Catholics, they’d ’ ve vamoosed instanter. 


86 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


He’d likely ’ve given ’em all the apples an’ sent ’em home 
in a hack.” 

There was at least one person, however, who wholly 
approved of Gilbert’s way of dealing with Jethro, and that 
was his mother. In some unaccountable way, also, her 
approval always satisfied him in the face of his inward 
doubts. In characteristic man fashion he told her little, 
and then depended much upon her woman’s judgment, 
for, like most men, he intuitively had more faith in a wom- 
an’s instincts than in his own reason. 

When he left her that night, therefore, he put out of his 
mind, as unworthy of further thought, the fact that Jethro 
had called him a “scab” and a “leg-puller” and two or 
three unmentionable terms. Of course, he remembered 
that dictum from the Colonel’s long experience with men. 
“ Most any man can fool ye when he’s sober,” the Colonel 
had once said, “but git him drunk an’ ye’ve got him with 
the cover off his heart.” But, after all, what did it 
matter ? 

One thing alone remained to bother him. Jethro evi- 
dently knew something derogatory to Neely. There was 
no other explanation for Neely’s amusing and childlike 
panic. There was nothing very extraordinary about that, 
in itself. Neely was far too much of a well-meaning but 
pointless joke, to be taken seriously. It was only the 
introduction of Mr. Hubbard’s name that caused Gilbert 
to remember the incident at all. Gradually this wizened- 
up, insignificant-looking, gray-haired man, whom he knew 
merely by sight, was becoming to Gilbert’s imagination a 
kind of threatening creature crouching away somewhere 
in the dark, and he had a human craving to turn the light 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 87 


upon it. But he was a good man, this Alonzo Hubbard, 
in the opinion of the community, and, what was more, he 
was a successful man, which was much more important 
in the eyes of many — although, of course, they would never 
have admitted it. He was a devout churchman — hadn't 
he paid for those remarkable red plush seats in St. John's 
Church? He was a self-made man, and that was the only 
kind of a man that Hampstead had any respect for. 
And, although he was rich, he had not made enemies along 
with his money, as most rich men did. Hampstead moth- 
ers pointed him out to their sons as a model of propriety 
— and of success; and daughters, who were striving for a 
place in the small clique of people who styled themselves 
“society," lost much of their respect for their fathers be- 
cause those hard-working men were not as successful as 
the rich Mr. Hubbard. And there were few men in this 
democratic Connecticut city who were not proud when Mr. 
Hubbard bowed to them in his icy way. 

Gilbert understood Alonzo Hubbard little better than 
most of his neighbors did, but he was willing — and he was 
growing eager — to learn. And that was an advantage. 


CHAPTER VI 


AT MR. HARDY’S 

I F the Hardy house on West Hill had grown old and 
familiar for twenty years to Hampstead, there was, 
nevertheless, a glaring newness about the interior 
to help it to retain its earlier reputation for novelty. The 
“old man” liked the smell of paint and varnish, and had 
a large part of the house painted and repapered every 
year. It changed its appearance almost as often as Mrs. 
Hardy changed her gowns, and Mrs. Hardy’s gowns were 
the envy of Hampstead women. And between the two 
Sam Hardy seldom had more than a moderate-sized ac- 
count at any of the banks. He never begrudged the money 
spent in these two forms of decoration, however. They 
satisfied his whims. He walked to church of a Sunday 
morning with a gleam in his eye, acutely conscious of 
every admiring glance at Mrs. Hardy’s costume — his feet 
keeping time to the refrain that re-echoed in his exalted 
mind, “I paid for it, I paid for it.” And inside the 
church, the gowns always furnished him more consolation 
than the sermon. 

In the house, the parlors at present were modeled after 
some rooms that had taken Mr. Hardy’s eye at the Wal- 
dorf Astoria. They were all in gilt and white. The 
library, next door, was walled with green burlap and 
contained many costly books with uncut leaves, a newly 
88 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 89 


patented chair with a mechanical book holder, and a 
Turkish cozy corner. The big dining-room was finished 
throughout with Flemish Oak, Rathskellar-like. Mr. 
Hardy received his ideas in New York and adapted them 
to Hampstead, even to hanging his pictures in such a 
way that they looked as if they had been hurled at the 
walls and had been allowed to remain wherever they 
struck. And of course there were hardwood floors cov- 
ered with treacherous rugs, which were responsible for 
Mr. Hardy's attaining a rather incongruous, mincing gait, 
a hesitating, suspicious step, as if he were walking on ice. 

And if it be remarked that the house both within and 
without was characterized, at the least, by an infinite 
variety, what shall be said of those who lived in it? Mrs. 
Hardy had objected regularly to every change that her 
husband ordered, and she had then gone quietly upstairs 
and read Marcus Aurelius. Her indifferent submission 
had grown to be as chronic as her objections. She was 
a languid woman with very tense ideas about the pro- 
prieties of life, ideas nearly all of which Mr. Hardy vio- 
lated, purposely violated it seemed to her. She, therefore, 
lived, after her own fashion, an existence bounded by tea- 
cups and gossip, an occasional bit of fine sewing, and Mar- 
cus Aurelius. And the girl, who was like them both and to- 
tally different from either one, had missed most of the things 
that make a home better than a boarding-house, and was 
vaguely disappointed. Meanwhile the servants controlled 
the house, and Mr. Hardy paid the bills, and the neighbors 
spoke of the Hardys as “such a happy family.” 

Clare Hardy was lounging luxuriously on the broad 
window seat of her room in the tower, late that Friday 


90 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


afternoon. The window was open and the fresh June air 
blew the heavy curtains about her. Although a book 
lay in her lap, she was looking down at the busy city below 
her, with its ragged line of brick blocks showing above the 
green of the trees. Long streaks of smoke twisted like 
ribbons from a hundred chimney mouths and marred the 
beyond of blue mystery about the hills. Far in the dis- 
tance a long freight train was creeping along, a winding 
tendril of black against the hillside. She had often won- 
dered as she looked from this same window what Ruskin 
would have said to the blur of dirty smoke and the sooty 
chimneys. And yet, down at the mills the noise and the 
quiet discipline, and the sense of an army of men doing 
things appealed to her imagination. And in either of 
these conflicting points of view she was different from her 
girl friends in Hampstead, to nearly all of whom Ruskin 
was merely a name that suggested a duty unperformed, 
and the shops a noisy, mussy place where the men made 
money. Yes, Clare Hardy was distinctly different, and 
she had sense enough to know it and to be glad of it. 
Not that there was any suggestion of snobbery about her. 
The girls all declared that she was “ charming, lots of fun, 
and so refined/' and the boys liked her, although, of course, 
they did not understand her. They were not to be blamed 
for that. She was never certain that she understood her- 
self. If people now and then caught a stray end of a. line 
of her character, they always found it tangled with half-a- 
dozen others before they really had a firm hold of it. And 
yet there was a fine frankness about her, a way of going 
straight to a point like a man. Nothing in other women 
amused and irritated her so much as their roundabout, 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


91 


underneath, overhead, criss-cross methods of doing things. 
In short, she was as incomprehensible as her smile, which 
was alternately tantalizing and tender and malicious and 
mocking, and which was never quite the same for a con- 
secutive half-minute. 

It seemed to her this afternoon that nature, conven- 
tions and parents had combined to make girls useless and 
unhappy. She was desperately weary of her leisurely 
round of Women’s Club meetings and eternal piano prac- 
tice and insignificant church duties and occasional dances. 
She was sure there was no place in the world with so small 
a supply of originality as this town of Hampstead which 
she felt she hated and which she knew she loved. And 
perhaps this mood explains why the book in her lap hap- 
pened to be her old character-study book. She had 
started this book in college instead of keeping a diary. 
Every girl she knew had a diary. Therefore Miss Hardy 
scorned the daily entry of trivial incidents and, instead, 
analyzed on paper the people she met who interested her. 
For a year or two the book had gathered dust upon her 
lowest book-shelf, but during the present week volumi- 
nous notes had been entered in it daily. Perhaps this 
same mood explained that John Gilbert was the character 
she was studying, and perhaps John Gilbert explained the 
mood. This is a problem that no mere man would at- 
tempt to solve. 

At any rate, three pages of the book were already de- 
voted to him. She remembered him as the strong, un- 
wieldy boy. With that strange feminine memory for 
little, far-off things, she recalled his struggle with Billy 
McNish on that first day in the old garden, and still 


92 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


another short but decisive fight with Billy, the cause of 
which had been an argument as to whether or not her 
voice “had a fuzz on it.” Billy had admitted in the end 
that it had. She remembered, with a combination of 
inward embarrassment and inward pleasure, how angry 
he had once become with a gypsy fortune teller who had 
said he would some day marry a blonde woman — and her 
eyes and hair were black. She remembered how the old 
house had been sold, how all the girls in her set had had 
nothing more to do with him when he went to work as a 
mechanic, and how he had suddenly dropped out of the 
circle of grown-up children and had become Mr. Gilbert. 
She remembered little concerning him during the years 
she had been away at college, and since she had graduated 
she had scarcely thought of him until that Common 
Council meeting a month ago. It was only since Sunday, 
however, that he had really seemed interesting to her. 

All the week she had missed only one or two noons or 
evenings when the men came tramping home from the 
shops. And she had watched, curious to know what he 
was like when he was off his guard, when he did not know 
that she was looking at him. Her feminine habit of 
arguing everything to herself made her unconsciously 
consider him off his guard whenever she was out of sight. 
Every detail was noted in the book with mathematical 
accuracy. Sometimes he strode homeward with some of 
the men who had washed their faces just enough to make 
the workaday dirt a smudge. She had commented on his 
loud, hearty laugh and on his slapping a man on the back 
on one occasion with vigorous approbation. And yet 
there was always a sense of dignity about him; the men 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 93 


did the talking and he seemed naturally to hold court. 
One noon he had ridden up with her father, and again it 
seemed to her that he was holding court and that her 
father took the place of the workmen. She had not 
watched that night out of sheer resentment. And then, 
one day, he had come along just as lame old Widow Ash- 
ton was trying to catch a downtown car. He was talking 
with a number of the men, but he caught sight of the 
panting old lady, stopped the car, and then carried rather 
than helped her to the platform. The rather infrequent 
smile that was tender had played about Clare Hardy’s 
mouth, as she watched him catch up with the men and 
tramp on as if nothing had happened. Sometimes he was 
alone, loping along with awkward strides. “He drawls 
with his tongue and his legs,” was the entry in her book. 
This noon he had passed with the two McNishes, and they 
were such a jolly trio that she instinctively thought of the 
immortal Taffy tramping along arm in arm with the Laird 
and little Billee. Twice he had looked up at her window 
while she dodged back behind the curtains and held her 
breath, and last night her father had mentioned his pro- 
motion at the shops. 

She was wondering vaguely what John Gilbert thought 
of her father when the whistles blew down by the river. 
A car went clanging by, and soon the first groups of men 
came hurrying up the hill. The farther side of West Hill 
was already lined with new streets and dotted with work- 
men’s trim houses. Fifteen minutes passed and still he 
did not come. She was beginning to be irritated when, 
at last, she saw the tall, familiar form far down the street. 
Beside him was a shorter, broader woman’s figure. She 


94 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


strained her eyes to see who it was. She had never seen 
him come by before with a woman. Then she discovered 
that it was his mother. Miss Hardy felt suddenly guilty. 
As a child she had always liked Mrs. Gilbert, but since she 
had grown to be a woman she had not thought of calling 
at the plain little cottage. And as she watched them 
pass she had another and a different feeling of guilt, and 
she turned impulsively away from the window. 

He was very aggravating, she decided as she dressed for 
dinner. Why was he such a paragon? He was like one 
of those god-like heroes of popular novels, whom she liked 
to read about but whom she considered too impossibly 
perfect for words. She must discover something bad 
about him, she argued, or her character study would have 
no character. 

To add to her irritation Mr. Hardy insisted on telling a 
story about this man Gilbert at the dinner table. It 
seemed that there was a certain Irishman at the shops, 
whose steady and efficient life had been jarred out of gear 
by fragments of socialistic doctrine. He had come to 
believe that all men who have money ought to divide 
equally with those who have not. And the quality of his 
work grew poorer as the quantity of his talk increased. 
Gilbert had called the man into his office that day, and 
their conversation, as Mr. Hardy detailed it, was somewhat 
as follows: 

“Michael, I’m going to give you a half-holiday. ,, 

“Thank ye, sorr.” 

“You own your house, don’t you, Michael?” 

“I do, sorr,” proudly. 

“And you have six hundred dollars in the bank?” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 95 


“I have, sorr,” with some surprise. 

“You know Pat Ryan well?” 

“That I do. He lives forninst me in Mrs. Flynn’s 
boardin’ house. He’s woruked beside me fer eight years, 
sorr, an’ he owes me wan hundred dollars, bad cess to 
him. He drinks too harud, does Pat. His two byes 
woruk, an’ it’s all they can do to git along, the free av 
thim.” 

“Your daughter Mary is graduating from the High 
School this week?” 

“She is, sorr. She’s at the head av the class, God 
spare her.” 

“And your two sons are both in school?” 

“They are, sorr, an’ doin’ foine.” 

“All right, Michael. You’d like to deed over half of 
your property to Pat, of course. Come here at noon with 
the papers and I’ll be witness for you. That’s all, 
Michael, and good luck to you.” 

Michael, his eyes blinking, his hands nervously twitch- 
ing at his cap, goes out. Soon there is a knock at the 
door. Michael’s head is pushed through the narrow 
opening. 

“ I’m dommed if I do, sorr,” and the door slams behind 
him. 

In this way, according to Mr. Hardy, his new superin- 
tendent cured Michael of socialism. He was quickly dis- 
gruntled when his daughter did not join him in his noisy 
laughter. With masculine consistency, therefore, he 
turned to his wife. 

“Women ’re never interested in business,” he growled, 
spreading his bread on the tablecloth, with butter from a 


96 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


bread-and-butter plate. Nothing in the world aggra- 
vated Mrs. Hardy so much as to see anyone spread 
bread on the tablecloth. Her retort, therefore, was 
quick. 

“They are more interested in manners. Can’t you see 
your plate, Mr. Hardy?” 

Mr. Hardy cut the bread on the cloth with childish 
satisfaction. 

“I’ll eat as I like in my own house,” he declared with 
considerable vigor. 

“ And I object to watching such vulgarity. Annie, you 
may serve my dessert in my room.” And Mrs. Hardy 
swept upstairs to enjoy her nesselrode pudding in the 
cheering and calming company of Marcus Aurelius. As 
for Mr. Hardy, he literally ploughed through the remainder 
of the meal, his head lowered and his eyes avoiding his 
daughter’s glances, as if he had been a child shamefully 
caught in the jam closet. Then he stamped out defi- 
antly, with the evident intention of making noise enough 
to express all the things he had not said, and went down 
to the Hampstead Club for the evening. 

Ordinarily Clare Hardy would have been neither pained 
nor amused over the trivial disagreement of her parents. 
She was too accustomed to it. But to-night she was dis- 
turbed, and she dawdled over her coffee, trying to tell 
herself that it was not in any way her fault and that there 
was nothing on earth that she could do to put an end to 
it. And, having definitely accepted in her mind both of 
these conclusions, she denied them immediately in action 
by going to her mother’s room for the first time in weeks. 
Mrs. Hardy was so surprised and so delighted inwardly by 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 97 


this unexpected amiability on the part of her daughter 
that she treated the girl as if she were a child again, and 
spent the better part of the following half-hour in serious 
admonition and advice. By the end of that time Clare's 
frank sympathies were entirely with her father — and her- 
self; and she returned vigorously to her earlier conclu- 
sions about the futility of trying to make husbands and 
wives compatible. She had just definitely made up her 
mind that the thing was impossible when she mentioned 
casually that she was expecting Billy McNish that even- 
ing. Impossible? Of course it was. Husbands and 
wives never agreed. Everyone knew that. There was 
nothing to do. There was not one of her friends who had 
married whom she considered really contented. It is 
curious that nearly all cynics are young. 

“ He's a very persistent person, isn’t he?” Mrs. Hardy 
leaned forward with the sudden interest of a married 
woman who scents the possibility of a match. “I like 
him. I don’t know of another young man in town who 
is always so well groomed. And he is doing very well, I 
hear. Really, my dear, it is time you were married. 
After all, there is only one cardinal sin for a woman, 
Clare, and that is to be unmarried at thirty. And you 
have only five years of grace left.” 

“Time enough to fall in love a dozen times.” Miss 
Hardy had no intention of discussing at that moment this 
particular problem with her particular mother. She 
moved toward the door. 

“Love, my dear,” sighed Mrs. Hardy, “is a luxury; 
marriage is a necessity.” 

Now, Clare Hardy had always objected to this point of 


98 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


view, and she hated the word “ necessity ” with all her 
heart. 

“ I’m never going to be married. I want to be happy,” 
she declared as she left the room. And perhaps, by that 
hasty remark, she unconsciously denied again the conclu- 
sions she had made over her coffee; for Mrs. Hardy sat 
for a long time soberly repeating the words. Then she 
sobbed gently in a lace handkerchief. She was a sensi- 
tive woman. 

When Billy McNish arrived Miss Hardy was at the 
piano improvising. She nodded when he came into the 
room, but she went on with her playing. No woman who 
knew Billy well ever stopped doing anything because he 
appeared. They treated him with the same bon camara- 
derie they would have shown toward women who were 
upon the same intimate footing. In a way this might 
have been considered a compliment. It is certain that 
Billy in his expansive and delightful egotism so consid- 
ered it. And he had good reason. Unquestionably there 
was no man in Hampstead so popular with its femi- 
nine population as genial, free-and-easy, roly-poly Billy 
McNish. And so Miss Hardy continued with her im- 
provising, and Billy leaned at the side of the piano and 
prepared his very best smile for her when she would look 
up at him. 

“ I wish you’d sit dotvn.” Miss Hardy was certain that 
Billy was posing again, and she was determined not to sat- 
isfy him by looking at him. 

“But I can’t see you so well if I do.” The beginnings 
of his smile appeared, for he felt that this was a pleasant 
remark, and everybody knew that all ladies liked pleasant 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


remarks. Billy knew it, at any rate, from long experi- 
ence. 

“That’s the reason I wish you to sit down,” she said, 
rolling a very volcano of sound in the rumbling bass. 
Why couldn’t Billy do as he was told? 

“But I came to see you.” Charming Billy! Miss 
Hardy was on the point of looking up at him. Then her 
hands crashed off upon a new movement — for Clare Hardy 
played with much of the firmness and vigor of a man — 
accelerating with a rapid crescendo to a brilliant climax, 
irritated music, noisy music. She was expressing her 
mood. Billy had retired to a chair behind her back. He 
had discreetly, as he thought, done the thing that would 
be pleasing to her. The girl’s music wandered off into 
minors of disappointment. Why had he done it? Why 
did he always give in to her? He should have known that 
all the time she really longed to look up at him, to admire 
his pose, to enjoy his smile. Miss Hardy liked Billy 
greatly, but there was always something a trifle wrong 
with him. He was very slightly too flexible; that was 
it, too flexible. If someone could only stiffen him a 
little he would — but, then, no one could really be aggra- 
vated at Billy McNish for two consecutive minutes, and 
Miss Hardy soon turned from the piano and lectured him 
sharply because he was obstinate over leaving his place. 
Then she commanded him to tell her about himself, and 
Billy, who was willing to be accommodating after two or 
three introductory remarks to the effect that “there was 
really nothing to tell,” confided in her for the first time 
his new political ambitions and hopes and fears. 

Billy always talked about himself to women with a pro- 


100 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


found humility which forced the listener to contradict his 
self-judgments, a method that was exceedingly satisfac- 
tory to both. The feminine mind seldom, if ever, dreamt 
of any insincerity in Billy’s remarks. His open-hearted 
and often well-calculated frankness was disarming. 
In fact, the only person who ever really discovered 
Billy was Billy himself in his better moments. “I'm 
nothing but a confounded play-actor/’ he would groan in 
his self-abasement. And, following the custom of the 
Hampstead ladies, we must contradict him again in his 
humility. Billy McNish was a great deal more than “a 
confounded play-actor.” He was a generous, fresh- 
minded, friendly fellow, unusually brilliant over any 
piece of work that appealed to him, with ideals that he 
really tried to live up to, and with a realization of his own 
failings that was almost morbidly keen. And if he liked 
to have other people’s approval expressed in words, he was 
never in anyone’s debt for long. He said more compli- 
mentary things about his friends behind their backs than 
they ever said about him to his face. And he meant 
what he said, or at least he thought he did at the time — 
and it is on this, perhaps, that a man like Billy McNish 
ought to be judged. 

It was perfectly natural, therefore, that to-night, as he 
opened his ambitious heart to Miss Hardy, Billy spoke of 
Gilbert’s promise to help him. 

“And Jack’s word’s as good as his bond,” he went on 
enthusiastically. “ He’ll work like a trooper. He would 
anyhow. He’s that sort. Wish there were more like 
him. But there aren’t. Never seems to think of him- 
self somehow. Not enough for his own good. Probably 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 101 


’ll never amount to much; too good-hearted and too slow. 
But he’s the sort to hang to.” 

Clare Hardy never admired Billy so much as when he 
talked of his men friends. There was to her always some- 
thing supremely fine, supremely strong about the friend- 
ship of a man for a man. It was the one thing that made 
her sorry that she was a woman. 

“Do you see much of him?” Billy put the question 
casually. 

Miss Hardy shook her head. She had not told Billy on 
Sunday about the incident on the Clear Lake hillside. 
And somehow she did not like to tell him. She knew that 
his face would grow sober, for no reason at all, of course, 
and that now he would wonder why she had not told him 
when the thing happened. And she had not told him 
then, because — yes, because — after all, why should she 
have told him? It was really of no importance. 

Meanwhile Billy had plunged into a humorous account 
of Mr. Jethro’s inopportune call at the church supper the 
night before, and she was soon laughing over his descrip- 
tion — for Billy had a gift of droll caricature, and his stories 
were usually as real as life itself, — and nodding her head 
approvingly over Gilbert’s part in it. 

“Why didn’t you do it yourself?” she broke in 
abruptly, to Billy’s discomfiture. One reason why Billy 
McNish liked her more than he liked other girls was that 
she had this way of asking frankly disconcerting ques- 
tions. He was not as certain of his masculine supe- 
riority with her as he was with the others. 

“Well, you see, I shouldn’t have known how to do it.” 
It was said with Billy’s appealing frankness. “It’s not 


102 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


my line — dealing with that kind of men. It is Jack’s. 
That’s why he’ll be such a help at the election. And 
that’s why I’ll probably never win, never in the world.” 

And before she knew it Billy was drawing a lugubrious 
picture of his broken-hearted defeat at the polls, and she 
was impulsively cheering him and telling him how popular 
he was, and how certain he was of victory, and many other 
similar things which Billy liked to hear. Then, when he 
began to glow once more with self-satisfaction, she assured 
him that he would never win anything if he kept saying 
that he wouldn’t. And he grew very sober, and told her 
that she was the only person who really understood him, 
and that her encouragement was the only thing that he 
cared a snap of his fingers about, and that if he ever ac- 
complished anything it was because she was his inspira- 
tion; that she knew he Miss Hardy had heard all 

this before, but she never had allowed him to finish it ex- 
cept once. It had been very hard for her then, for she 
liked Billy McNish very much better than any man she 
knew, and she knew that he was as earnest about it as he 
could possibly be about anything. Now, therefore, she 
told him that he must not be idiotic, and asked him if his 
father was well. Billy despairingly said that he believed 
Mr. McNish was enjoying his accustomed good health, and 
they talked about other and less interesting topics until 
it was time for him to go. 

Miss Hardy listened to his melodious whistling as he 
went down the walk, and her pride was piqued that he 
did not seem to be really very sad about those interrupted 
remarks of his. After all, if Billy was only a little less 
flexible, perhaps 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 103 


As she climbed the stairs, her mother called her. 

“I see by the paper,” Mrs. Hardy informed her with a 
long face, “ that Nelson Strutt sails for Europe to-morrow.” 

“Well, what of it?” 

“ Why, he was to come to your party, your Fourth of 
July party. It is very unfortunate, dear; one of the best 
families in town. There must be somebody else now, I 
suppose,” added Mrs. Hardy wearily, “and there are so 
few really nice people to ask.” 

The Fourth of July party was one of Clare Hardy’s 
original ideas. No one in Hampstead had ever thought 
of any diversion for the national holiday, beyond the 
usual firecrackers and torpedoes for the children, and the 
usual fireworks in the evening, and the usual accidents 
and doctors’ bills. Miss Hardy, therefore, out of her 
insistent desire for something that was new, had con- 
ceived the plan of inviting all of the desirable young people 
who had passed the firecracker age, and who had not as 
yet reached the period when a costlier display of rockets 
and Roman candles than their neighbors could afford 
satisfied their pride, to help her celebrate the holiday in 
her own way. The invitations were at that moment in 
her room, ready to be addressed and posted the next 
morning. 

Miss Hardy thought quickly, and as usual decided out 
of her impulses. 

“I think it might please Dad,” she said with a very 
proper suggestion of doubt in her voice, “if we should 
invite John Gilbert.” 

“Why, he’s only a workman, my dear,” remonstrated 
Mrs. Hardy. 


104 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“But he comes of good family, you know. And I 
really think it would please Dad.” 

“Perhaps so.” Perhaps Mrs Hardy’s tears of earlier 
in the evening helped her to consider the argument. “And 

then, too, it will make us seem democratic without ” 

“Our really being so.” Clare Hardy finished the sen- 
tence with a gentle sarcasm that was lost on her mother. 

She herself directed the envelope. Of course it was 
only for character study. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE BEGINNINGS OF A CABINET 

IFE had a new zest for Gilbert. He had taken his 



promotion quietly enough, but he felt an inward 


exhilaration now as he went about his new work 


and accepted his new responsibilities. It had affected 
him as a smile and a nod of approval or a hearty shake of 
the hand affected him — those little, human things that in 
some mysterious way make the pilot wheel of life spin 
more easily, and give the hands of our souls a firmer grip 
on the spokes. We may scoff at them in our moments 
of arrogant independence, but they do not come often 
enough in the lives of most of us, to ever lose their first 
novelty or power Outwardly, however, Gilbert did not 
change, and the men in the shops, who expected to see 
him assume Simpson’s old shell of ostentatious dignity, 
were disappointed. It is a weak leader who must have 
the mark of his position pinned upon him to be recog- 


nized. 


Many of the men quickly caught the new spirit without 
knowing why or how it came to them. There seemed to 
be more pleasure in working for a comrade, who wore over- 
alls and who did not mind dirtying his hands, than in 
slaving for a man who always looked as if he had just 
come from a bandbox and who spent most of his time in 


105 


106 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


his office. Of course there were foreigners, newcomers 
for the most part, whom it was necessary to boss until 
they learned to understand friendlier treatment ; and there 
were a few men like Jethro, suspicious, jealous, always 
looking for trouble — a kind of underground vermin that 
loosens the foundations of many a factory and that, in the 
end, often brings the entire structure tumbling ruinously 
upon owners and men alike. It was evident, also, that 
some of the older men were shaking their heads over the 
change. Gilbert overheard part of a conversation during 
the first day of his new responsibilities. 

“He won’t be superintendent long if I know anything.” 
The voice came to him from around the corner in the 
packing room. “Hardy’ll run the place, and Jack ain’t 
the kind to knuckle under. Simpson used to tell me how 
he’d get put behind two or three days on some jobs be- 
cause ‘the old man’ butted in.” 

“Simpson was always complaining about something.” 

“That’s because he caught you soldiering.” 

“Gilbert, he don’t have much to say.” 

“Jack’s deceivin’. He looks like a shamblin’, good- 
natured colt, but he can kick if anyone tries to ride him.” 

Gilbert smiled. He didn’t take any stock in that kind 
of talk. Why should he? “The old man” never had in- 
terfered with him, at least not in any way that affected the 
work of the shop. He knew factory men’s talk; how they 
planned out many kinds, of incidents that might occur 
among their “bosses,” but never did. He smiled in his 
leisurely, good-humored way and went on with his work. 
But Saturday morning he knocked at Hardy’s door and 
he was not smiling. “ The old man ” had countermanded 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


107 


an order he had given, and the interference meant delay 
and confusion. 

“Guess I’ve made a mistake, Mr. Hardy,” he drawled 
as the president turned sharply at the interruption. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“I thought you made me superintendent of the shop. 
Nobody to interfere and all that.” 

“So I did. What’s the row?” Mr. Hardy scented a 
complaint of insubordination. 

“Just a minute.” Gilbert picked up the telephone 
receiver on Mr. Hardy’s desk. “Hello, foundry please.” 
There was a pause. “ Hello, foundry? This you, Grady? 
Mr. Hardy misunderstood about those Number 893 pat- 
terns. Put the work right through.” 

He put down the receiver, thanked the astonished 
president and left the room. Gilbert never knew how 
dangerously near he was to dismissal in the next few 
minutes, nor how many times Sam Hardy’s finger trem- 
bled over the button that rang the superintendent’s bell. 
It was a novel experience for the domineering “old man,” 
but he was having other novel experiences. He had 
found himself, during the last day or two, worrying for the 
first time about the future of “his shops.” Gilbert’s 
frank talk two days before had left its mark upon Mr. 
Hardy’s mind, a mark that he could not erase, however 
hard he tried. He felt unconsciously the need of a strong 
man behind him, and at last he turned, growling to him- 
self, back to his desk and his papers. But of course he 
held a kind of grudge against his superintendent for it, 
and that noon Miss Hardy had the satisfaction, although 
that young woman was not certain that she was entirely 


108 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


satisfied, of hearing some unvarnished criticism of John 
Gilbert — cynical remarks about the sort of men who 
take a mile if you give them an inch, the sort of men that 
a promotion spoils, and all that kind of thing. 

Gilbert went home to find his mother on well-concealed 
tip-toe about a small envelope which had been left at the 
door that morning, and she beamed at him like any young 
girl as she read and re-read the card which it inclosed. 
To Gilbert the invitation was merely a cordial compli- 
ment from Mr. Hardy himself. Perhaps, he thought to 
himself, he had been a bit hasty that morning. But to 
her it was something miraculously fine, something that 
brought with it a flavor of their old prosperous days. 
She could remember cards, not unlike this one, that she 
herself had sent from the big house down the street. 
And while she assured him that they ought to have done 
it long ago, she was inwardly delighted that they had done 
it at all. There was, to be sure, a certain fear mixed with 
her delight. She never for a moment thought of Mr. 
Hardy. The girl was at the bottom of it, of course. 
Gilbert noticed that she was looking at him intently, and 
he heard the tap of her foot on the floor. 

“I can’t seem to understand that you’re really grown 
up,” she remarked with some confusion. 

“I’m not.” Gilbert smiled, but his mother shook her 
head soberly. 

“ Mothers are like that, laddie. They like their boys to 
be always their boys; and every larger pair of trousers 
they have to buy brings a lump to their throats. I’ll 
never forget the shock it was to me when I found you 
wore the same size shirt your father used to wear.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


109 


“ Growing big isn’t growing up, mother.” 

“True, laddie, true.” 

Now she smiled back at him, and when he started off 
after dinner for Kemper’s Park to play a game of baseball 
in the factory league, the idea of it seemed to answer her 
mood. Playing baseball! He was only a boy after all. 
What simple little things in us all satisfy and cheer the 
mothers! How they create splendid illusions about us 
merely for the sake of deceiving themselves! How they 
delight in believing us to be what they know in their heart 
of hearts we are not. And yet, without their illusions and 
their self-deceptions, what a world of pure contentment 
and joy would vanish away out of their lives! It was so 
with Mrs. Gilbert, and if one of the illusions which formed 
the image of Jack in her heart was shattered, she promptly 
brushed away the ruins and created another in its place. 

Of all the many secret societies that thrived in Hamp- 
stead — and there was one for every two score of voters — 
none was so often mentioned in the News and Register as 
the Edward Strutt Council, D. L. O. P. It had been 
formed when Mr. Strutt was at the height of his glory as 
Congressman, and he had written a letter from Washing- 
ton, a letter which hung now in a cheap but gaudy frame 
on a whitewashed wall of the society’s rooms, permitting 
the council to use his name. The members were, for the 
greater part, skilled workmen from the mills, and, as far 
as Strutt Council, D. L. O. P., was concerned, they lived 
up to the name. They worked. They organized fairs 
for their general funds; they engineered concerts for their 
sick and benevolent association ; they developed an ama- 
teur comic opera company which gave performances at 


110 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


the Hampstead Opera House to endow a D. L. O. P. bed 
at the hospital; they paraded in wonderful uniforms on 
the slightest provocation; and the G. H. T., or Grand 
High Treasurer, was never forced to face a deficit. They 
were giving, this very week of Gilbert’s promotions three 
nights’ bazaar at the large armory on Broad Street, for the 
benefit of the widows and orphans of deceased members. 

It goes without saying that the most important feature 
of the bazaar was the list of prizes, and, since the numbers 
were to be drawn on the last night, the people began to 
pour into the big brick building before the streets outside, 
filled with the Saturday night crowd, were dark. Of 
course there were other attractions in the big drill hall. 
There were the usual booths decorated with the usual gay 
bunting — pinned up so cleverly that the holes and faded 
places seldom showed, — behind which stood the usual 
shop-girls and shop- wives and shop-daughters of the D. 
L. O. P., selling the usual things, from imitation tortoise- 
shell combs to imitation ice cream. An orchestra on a 
temporary stage was making the usual disturbance, or 
lounging back nonchalantly after an effort, doing their 
best to look as if they disliked their prominence. Young 
girls were sifting through the crowd selling “ chances” 
on a sewing-machine, which husbands bought because 
wives were interested in both the sewing-machine and 
the “chances.” The people from outside kept crowding in, 
elbowing their way through the tightly packed masses, and 
there was so much noise that one had to shout to be heard. 
The thermometer was at eighty and rising every minute, and 
nearly everyone was having an outrageously good time. 

Gilbert leaned against the candy counter near the door 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 111 


and talked with Gilshannon of the News. He liked Gil- 
shannon with his bright, cynical talk and his generous 
Irish heart that gave the lie to it. Like most reporters 
Gilshannon had a good supply of gossip at his tongue’s 
end, and, unlike most reporters, he analyzed his gossip; 
he took it to pieces; and he laughed at it. It was very 
entertaining. The men of Hampstead liked Gilshannon. 
He admitted it frankly, and he said that this accounted 
for his good-natured contempt for people. How could he 
have any respect for the fools who were not clever enough 
to see through him; who liked him, in a word? His mind 
seemed always busy with new theories and sophistries, 
which often turned upon him, boomerang-like; but few of 
his friends took them seriously. Certainly he never did. 
And so, although he scoffed at clothes, he took great care 
to look well; and, although he declared that good humor 
was an evidence of weakness, there was no smile in Hamp- 
stead more constant than that about his bearded mouth; 
and, although he often said that a newspaper man was 
just nobody at all, he swaggered about the streets as if he 
owned them. 

Gilshannon saw her coming, but he did not mention it. 
He broke off suddenly in the midst of a sentence: 

"It's a begging fest,” he remarked. “If you stay long 
in one place you get collared. Your only hope is to keep 
moving. Nothing to see anyhow except the people. If 
you get a bunch of people together anywhere, you can 
charge admission to those that are outside. They like to 
herd. I’m off. ’Night, Jack.” 

A moment later Gilbert was confronted by Miss Gerty 
gmith ; all in dinging, flimsy white, a huge wad of her 


112 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


bright yellow hair built up at the edge of her forehead at 
almost exactly the tilt of the tip of her upturned nose. 
Her eyes had the triumphant glint of capture, as she 
stretched out her exquisitely rounded bare arm and 
prodded the collection box almost in his face. 

“ Something for the orphans?” 

Her tone was business-like, and Gilbert mechanically 
put his hand in his pocket. 

“ Ought to be something big from a man with a big 
job like yours.” 

Gilbert dropped back the dime he had chosen and drew 
forth a quarter instead. He knew that he had come to 
the bazaar partly to see this girl. He knew that he wished 
to understand her. There had been a time when he en- 
joyed watching her physical beauty, her animal graceful- 
ness, although the charm always disappeared when she 
spoke to him. Now his thought was concentrated on the 
problem of the shop and her relation to it. But he found 
himself hesitating, scarcely knowing, now that she had 
come to him, how to talk to her. 

“ That’s the business,” she remarked, as the silver rat- 
tled in the box. “Guess you got a raise all right.” 

He merely shook his head, and she turned away with a 
half-hidden grimace. She was frankly piqued about this 
big Mr. Gilbert. Most of the men stared at her with open- 
eyed admiration, and she liked it. But she did not like 
the look that she usually saw in his eyes. It seemed to 
hurt her pride. 

“Wait a minute. I want to talk to you.” 

“Well, you’ll have to talk quick. My time’s worth 
about a dollar a minute to the widows and orphans.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 113 


“All right/’ Gilbert drawled. “I’ll wait till your time 
is cheaper.” 

He settled back against the candy counter, and looked 
past her toward the platform, where the orchestra had 
been pushed back from its proud position to make room 
for the ceremony of drawing the prizes. But her woman’s 
curiosity was aroused, and she stood waiting irreso- 
lutely. 

“Suppose you like being superintendent?” she re- 
marked tentatively. 

“Lots of possible difficulties. Suppose, for example, I 
had a man under me who stole information about new 
machines we haven’t patented, and sold it to somebody 
outside.” 

The crowd had become suddenly quiet and was pressing 
toward the platform. The luck of the first draw was 
about to be announced. Miss Gerty Smith paid no atten- 
tion, however. She was obviously startled and her face 
was slightly flushed. 

“Well, what ’Id you do?” She tried to speak indiffer- 
ently. 

“ I don’t quite know. That’s one of the difficulties.” 

“Silver water pitcher.” The voice of the announcer 
interrupted them, and the mass about them craned its 
neck and sharpened its ears and held its breath. “ Num- 
ber 4178. Number 4178 is Joseph Heffler.” 

An audible sigh came from the crowd, and it was fol- 
lowed quickly by a number of perfectly distinct hisses. 
A.t that instant Gilbert, looking up, caught sight of a short 
man with a young, beardless face and a contrasting shock 
of prematurely gray hair. The man was almost at the 


114 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


edge of the crowd, and Gilbert saw the face grow suddenly 
red and drawn at the hisses. It was an attractive face, 
and the man’s evident suffering seized upon Gilbert’s 
sympathies. The annpuncement of the second drawing 
came almost immediately, and the man with the gray hair 
slipped from his place and started for the door, almost 
brushing Gilbert as he passed. But a woman’s hand 
stopped him as, his head bent, he hurried by, and Miss 
Gerty Smith spoke, her hard, sharp voice modulated until 
it seemed almost kind: 

“ Good-night, Joe. You won quick.” 

The man with the gray hair looked up, smiled and 
passed out. 

Gilbert knew about this Joe Heffler. Gilshannon had 
been talking about him that very night. Gilshannon had 
dismissed him from conversation by remarking that “he 
was no good, no good on earth.” And He filer’s record 
affirmed Gilshannon’s opinion. Heffler had worked at 
the Hubbard mills once, but he had been caught embez- 
zling the factory funds and had served three years in 
prison. He had had a hard time finding work after that, 
but finally he had been given a chance as clerk in the 
Water Commissioners’ office. A few months ago he had 
lost the place, however, and rumor, always eager to strike 
a man who is down, said that he had been caught stealing 
again. But Gilbert’s sympathies, when they were fully 
aroused— and the poignant pain on Heffler’s face had 
aroused them, — always made him impulsive. He forgot 
Miss Gerty Smith entirely, and, turning on his heel, he 
followed the man whom Gilshannon had said “was no 
good” out into the night. The man was standing at the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 115 


corner, indecisively looking up and down Main Street, 
when Gilbert came up behind him. 

“My name's John Gilbert, Joe Heffler. Walk a bit 
with me, will you? It's a fine night." 

Without waiting for an answer he linked his arm in 
Heffler’s, and they were tramping up one of the deserted 
side streets almost before Heffler knew what was hap- 
pening. They walked for more than an hour, and at the 
end of that time Joe Heffler, silent and suspicious at first, 
was talking freely of himself, talking with the eager joy of 
a man who has been schooled to silence. And Gilbert, 
listening, realized that there is a harder solitary confine- 
ment than that of the prison, — the solitary confinement of 
the free streets of a free land, with public opinion, its head 
turned away, passing by on the opposite side. 

“It's none of my business, you know," Gilbert inter- 
rupted him once. He felt vaguely that he owed the man 
an apology for merely listening. 

“It's anybody’s business, sir," said Heffler bitterly. 

It was a simple story enough, the old story of taking 
money that he thought he could replace, money that was 
needed at the moment to make his ailing mother com- 
fortable. Heffler told it all with an almost frantic frank- 
ness. He made no excuses. He laid bare every personal 
motive. He said that, when he found the stealing easy, 
he took more than he needed ; and he admitted that, if he 
had not been caught, he would probably have taken even 
more. He felt that the shame of it had killed his mother, 
but he did not blame Mr. Hubbard. He blamed himself. 
And at this juncture of the story Gilbert patted him on 
the shoulder and gruffly told him to “brace up." Heffler 


116 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


had little to say about the years in prison or about those 
that had followed since his release. He had returned to 
Hampstead with the intention of living down his mistake, 
and he had found it a hard task. He could not explain 
why he had lost his place in the Water Commissioners , 
office. Captain Merrivale, the chairman of the board, had 
always seemed friendly to him until about a month before 
he had been dismissed. He had said something at that 
time against the purchase of some land at the Hamp- 
stead reservoir, and Captain Merrivale had been dis- 
pleased by his remarks; but there were certainly no 
grounds in that for dismissing him. 

Gilbert remembered the Council's authorizing the Water 
Commissioners to buy the land. He was interested. He 
asked Heffler to tell him more about it, and Heffler, sur- 
prised, told him what little he knew. The land on the 
north of the reservoir was hilly and high priced; the land 
on the south and west was level and cheap. For an addi- 
tional reservoir and canal, the latter seemed better to 
him; that was all. He knew little about it. The land on 
the south and west was owned by farmers. The strip on 
the north, the land that had been purchased by the com- 
missioners, was held by a syndicate, in which, he knew 
from the records, Mr. Hubbard and ex-Congressman 
Strutt were interested. There were arguments in favor 
of selecting this land, of course, and the commissioners 
undoubtedly knew more about it than he did. 

All this Heffler explained indifferently, in jerky, unfin- 
ished sentences, and then he lapsed into his usual dull 
silence. He had lost his interest when he had finished 
his personal story. Perhaps he was half sorry that he 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 117 


had talked so freely. He had become so accustomed to 
distrust and ridicule that he expected it. 

It was late when they walked up Main Street, their 
footsteps echoing along the silent thoroughfare. The 
stores were dark and the crowds had vanished. But the 
lights in Mr. Tubb’s gaudy ark of a night lunch wagon 
were still burning, and Gilbert directed Joe Heffler, who 
seemed to hang back reluctantly, to the narrow steps of 
the cart. Mr. Lumpkin, protected by a huge white apron, 
many sizes too large for him, which had belonged to his 
predecessor in the glories of the lunch-counter, was wash- 
ing dishes and singing lustily a song which may or may 
not have been suggested by his occupation: 

“ It’s suited me, this life at sea, 

For nigh on twenty ” 

“Come in, boys! Howdy, Mr. Gilbert, and you, Joe. 
Well, well! The Scriptures say that ‘the lion an’ the 
lamb shall eat together/ or words to that effect. Been to 
the bazaar, I presume. What’ll you have? Oh, come, 
Joe, you’d better have something.” 

But Heffler shook his head doggedly. 

“Ain’t hungry.” 

“Your looks belie you, as the Scripture says, or some- 
thing to that effect.” Mr. Peter Lumpkin leaned upon 
the counter and glared jovially at the obviously em- 
barrassed Heffler. “Come, now, what’ll it be, ham, 
chicken, tongue, all the fifty-seven varieties? It’s his 
treat.” Mr. Lumpkin jerked his thumb at Gilbert. 

“Of course it’s my treat.” 

“There, what’d I tell you. What’ll it be, Joe, coffee. 


118 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


tea, cocoa, ginger pop — everything that’s good to drink — 
adapted, Mr. Gilbert, as you will observe, from our worthy 
rival Butterson’s well-known advertisement.” 

Heffler, driven figuratively into a corner, looked appeal- 
ingly up at Gilbert. 

“I’m broke, that’s all, if I’ve got to say it,” he said 
simply. “ I bought that bazaar ticket with pretty nearly 
my last money because somebody asked me, somebody I 
couldn’t refuse. I owe Peter here half a dollar ” 

“A falsehood, Mr. Gilbert,” broke in Mr. Lumpkin with 
a thump on the counter that rattled the dishes. “A 
gross, willful, and wicked falsehood. Our friend here has 
joined me in certain comforting libations; he has helped 
me to consume delectable eatables which otherwise were 
destined for canine jaws, but always at my request, sir, 
always at my request.” 

“Well, anyhow,” persevered Mr. Heffler, “I don’t in- 
tend to run in debt. I’ll starve first. And I don’t want 
to be under obligations to you, Mr. Gilbert.” 

“ All right,” said Gilbert, “ I’ll deduct it from your first 
week’s pay.” 

“My what?” Heffler stared at him with wide eyes. 

“Your first week’s pay at the shop. You’re going to 
begin there Monday, you know.” 

Heffler looked quickly from Gilbert to Mr. Lumpkin 
and back. He ran his hand nervously through his thick 
gray hair. He took a long breath and sat down weakly 
on one of the revolving stools. 

“D’ye mean to say that you’re going to trust me?” he 
said, almost in a whisper. “You, you aren’t playing a 
game on me?” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


119 


“Of course I trust you. Of course I’m not ” 

But, before Gilbert could finish, Joe Heffler astounded 
them by burying his head in his arms on the counter, with 
imminent danger to a plate of ham sandwiches, and sob- 
bing like a child. Mr. Lumpkin, after carefully rescuing 
the sandwiches, shrugged his shoulders. 

“Joe’s mighty precipitate,” he remarked confiden- 
tially. “But you’ve done a good thing, Mr. Gilbert. 
I’ve often said to myself: * Peter Lumpkin,’ says I, ‘that 
Mr. Gilbert is all wool and a yard wide. He may not be 
very handsome,’ I says, begging your pardon, of course, 
‘but handsome is as handsome does,’ as the Scripture 
says, or words to that effect. Now, I know Joe. He’s 
slept in this emporium of food and frivolity for the last 
week, chiefly because Mr. Tubb didn’t know anything 
about it but mainly because he hadn’t anywhere else to 
sleep. And I tell you he’s as tender hearted and as well 
meaning an individual as ever helped to populate the 
Almighty’s footstool. You’ve done a good thing, and 
you’ll never have a jot or tittle of regret. I admire 
you, sir, and if you ever want your shoes blacked, Mr. 
Peter Lumpkin stands ready to shine them, sir, with the 
President’s shoe blacking.” 

Mr. Lumpkin finished his peroration with a gesture 
which brought his hand in contact with the coffee boiler, 
and, since that receptacle was hot, Peter added a few 
words that seemed, to say the least, incongruous. 

“ All right, Lumpkin,” laughed Gilbert. “ Let me have 
some coffee.” 

They had coffee all ’round, and sandwiches. Heffler ate 
four silently and followed them with apple pie. While 


120 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


they were eating the door slid back and let in Jimmy 
O’Rourke, who immediately filled in at the only vacant 
seat left at the counter. Then Mr. Lumpkin brought 
forth a box of cigars, made of “good patriotic Connecticut 
tobacco,” declaring that they at least were his treat; and 
soon the four were puffing away contentedly and discuss- 
ing topics along the line of least resistance to Mr. Lump- 
kin’s eloquence. Occasionally Peter would defer some 
points to Gilbert’s judgment and occasionally Jimmy 
O’Rourke broke in with quotations from newspapers or 
various local authorities. Heffler sat quiet, his eyes 
almost constantly on Gilbert. 

“ Say,” remarked Jimmy in a pause, while Mr. Lumpkin 
was regaining his breath. Jimmy had a way of finding 
every trivial situation of which he was a part, like some- 
thing, much more important, that he had read about or 
heard about. “Dis makes ye tink av de President an’ 
his cabinet, an’ de way dey talks things over. De Secrety 
av Agriculture, he don’t have much to say — dat’s Heff- 
ler. De Secrety of War — dat’s me all right,” Jimmy 
doubled up his fists and grinned. “An’ Peter sure is 
Secrety of de Interior.” 

Gilbert waited a moment, smiling, 

“And where do I come in, Jimmy?” 

“Say, ye want me to say it, don’t ye? Well, you’re 
de main guy.” 

The bell of the town clock in the Municipal building 
tolled twelve, and Mr. Lumpkin prepared to close the 
wagon. Mr. Tubb’s scruples would not permit him to make 
money on Sunday, even in a lunch cart in the early morn- 
ing. Outside Joe Heffler put his hand on Gilbert’s arm. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 121 


“ I'll do my best to ” 

“Sure,” said Gilbert heartily. But Heffler refused the 
loan Jack tried to force upon him. 

“I’d rather not, if you don't mind,” he said. 

Jimmy O'Rourke went off whistling down the street. 
He had probably forgotten entirely his comparison of the 
group in the lunch wagon to a cabinet. He certainly had 
no notion that it was prophetic. As for Gilbert, he spent 
all Sunday afternoon tramping about Hampstead reser- 
voir, but if he came to any conclusion he said nothing 
about it to anyone. In fact Mrs. Gilbert complained that 
night with some raillery that he was unusually uncom- 
municative. 


CHAPTER VIII 


INDEPENDENCE DAY 


OR three or four days it rained almost continu- 



ously, and the “ Glorious Fourth” dawned, drip- 


ping and disheartening. Of course all Hamp- 
stead arose early, and of course its youthful patriots 
managed to express their enthusiasm “between drops,” 
and of course everyone remarked, with various degrees of 
resignation, that it “always rained on Fourth of July,” 
and of course nobody wasted any time thinking about the 
significance of the day or about the men of 1776 who, by 
their act, created a nation as well as a holiday. Few peo- 
ple in Hampstead bothered their minds about the signifi- 
cance of anything. They were too busy, and a holiday 
was a holiday. 

After a dull, leaden afternoon and twilight, night shut 
in black and menacing and growling with far-off thunder. 
Lightning soon began to streak across the shroud that 
hung over the Hampstead hills, and the thunder grew 
harsh and rapid, as if the elements realized that they had 
spoiled the town’s celebration and were trying to replace 
it by a display of their own. Then suddenly the down- 
pour began, straight and steady even in the whirl of the 
rushing wind that tore through the thick foliage of the 


122 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 123 


trees. But the closeness and the heat of the day persisted 
and seemed even to increase. 

On the side of West Hill, which stood forth defiantly 
against the full force of the storm, and down the streets 
of which the water streamed in miniature rivers, the 
Hardy house, with its high tower, loomed up into the 
desolate night like a beacon. Within there was the stir 
of preparation, and the maids tiptoed here and there and 
gave and took orders quietly, hushed by the sense of 
something impending, as if someone was ill upstairs. 

Clare Hardy, all in black, except for flashes of red at her 
throat, at her waist and at the ends of her sleeves, knocked 
at the door of her mother’s room, sometime after eight. 
Mrs. Hardy responded plaintively. She stood with her 
back turned to the door. 

“I’ve done it,” she said, punctuating the words with 
jerky little sobs. 

“ Done what? ” Miss Hardy hurried to her solicitously. 

“I’ve wept, my child,” moaned her mother. “That 
means that I simply can’t see anyone for half an hour. 
You know how terribly crying makes one look. And if 
anyone should notice — it’s so vulgar, you know, to show 
one’s feelings.” 

“But what’s the matter?” Clare Hardy dared to lay 
her hand on her mother’s shoulder. 

“Don’t be sympathetic, child,” said Mrs. Hardy, sud- 
den sternness stopping her tears. “ It’s bad for one’s 
repose. I wanted this to be so successful. It’s out of 
season and we might be criticised. And now there is this 
wicked rain. I’m afraid the Bassett girls won’t come, 
and I did wish them to see my new vases. And your 


124 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


father, my dear, something is wrong with him. He was 
very harsh to-night.” 

As Miss Hardy went slowly down the stairs, she could 
hear her father stamping up and down his room with 
heavy step. She leaned against the balustrade wearily, 
and for a second she felt utterly discouraged, as if the sup- 
ports had been suddenly jerked out from under her heart. 
Then the bell rang, and pressing her lips tightly together, 
she tried to make them smile as she hurried down to greet 
the first comers. When the door opened John Gilbert 
alone strode past the maid, and, seeing Miss Hardy at the 
foot of the stairs, he crossed the hall, straight to her. 

“Miss Hardy,” he said, putting out his big hand with 
an awkward shyness, “I — I'm not late, am I?” 

Clare Hardy laughed nervously. 

“Oh, no, you're just in time.” 

“I didn't want to be too early.” He was evidently 
relieved until he looked about him. He saw the maid 
smiling as she passed him. “ I'm not too early, ami?” 

Miss Hardy saw the red flush mount in his cheeks, and 
she was sorry for him. 

“The others are late.” 

Gilbert looked at her ruefully. Then he smiled. 

“You're trying to let me down easy. After all there 
are good things about being first.” 

His smile was contagious. 

“That's a very nice speech, Mr. Gilbert.' 

“ Nice speech? ” Gilbert was puzzled. “ I didn’t mean 
any nice speech. Oh, I see. You thought I meant be- 
cause you are here. I might have. But I didn't. I 
was speaking generally.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


125 


It was her turn to be embarrassed. 

“ If you’re always as honest as that I’m afraid the girls 
won’t like you.” 

Gilbert took a step forward and his eyes, although they 
smiled down at her, were very searching. 

“ Won’t you?” 

“I — don’t know.” 

There was a hint of defiance as well as of coquetry in 
her tone. What right had he to ask such a question, and 
what right had he to look at her as if he owned her? 

“I hope you will,” he said gravely, and he left her to 
put aside his rain-coat and hat. 

During the next half hour bedraggled horses, hoof deep 
in water, dragged dripping carriages to the door; and men 
and women in brave array, many of whom had mourned 
deeply the necessity of coming in such a storm, paraded 
in with protestations of delight. John Gilbert, watching 
them, felt doubly awkward as he saw that the men were 
all in evening clothes — evening clothes of great variety, 
without doubt, for it literally takes decades for Hamp- 
stead to wear them out. There were some that clung as 
tightly as paper to a wall; there were collars that crowded 
up about the ears; and there were sleeves that kept their 
wearers busy, all the evening, jogging their cuffs upward 
by a carefully concealed wrist exercise. But after all 
they were evening clothes and therefore the badge of 
propriety, and Gilbert’s natural isolation was made almost 
unbearable by this continuous succession of swallow tails. 
There is many a hero among men who is more or less of a 
coward in the face of clothes. 

It was a simple affair, this Fourth of July party, and its 


126 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


very simplicity made it a novelty. There was no set pro- 
gram of things to do. Hampstead usually thought out 
its social matters as it thought out its business, and it 
made its functions as formal as old-fashioned business 
correspondence. It was not that its people preferred to 
be stiff and uncomfortable. Not at all. They were 
merely afraid of doing something that might be consid- 
ered improper. And it was for the same reason that 
they seldom applauded at theater or concert, and so gave 
the town a reputation of being “cold.” As a matter of 
fact there is not a warmer-hearted community in the 
world, when they are certain that it is proper to seem 
warm-hearted. But Miss Hardy turned the house that 
night into “Liberty Hall,” and assured them that, since 
it was Independence Day, they should do as they pleased. 
Of course half of them did and half of them did not, as is 
usually the custom where the sexes are equally divided; 
but they all enjoyed it immensely. 

They danced in the music-room and down the hall; 
they played cards in the library; they made speeches and 
sang songs; they helped themselves from the dining- 
room table, crowded with good things, between times; 
the men smoked in the little reception-room; couples 
retired to the cozy corner or a window seat and pretended 
to watch the others; and even the servants used the crack 
in the door of the butler’s pantry more freely than usual. 
Altogether it was a great success. The Misses Bassett 
rejoiced Mrs. Hardy’s heart by going into raptures over 
the new vases, although, behind her back, they told each 
other that the things were undoubtedly imitation. And 
Mr. Hardy enjoyed the impromptu smoking-room. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 127 


Billy Me Nish had assured Miss Hardy that if he was to 
do as he liked he would, of course, remain at her side 
throughout the evening, and they spent an hour or more 
trying to help the people to be independent who were 
floundering aimlessly about because no one had built a 
groove for them to run in. But the time came when the 
girl chose a seat on the secluded stairs, and told Mr. 
McNish that from that moment she was going to do as 
she pleased — which meant, of course, that he was to do 
as she pleased. She commanded him to search for other 
sources of attraction for himself. Incidentally he was to 
find John Gilbert and to direct him in some surreptitious 
way down the hall and past the stairway. Billy himself, 
she explained guilelessly, had urged her to know Mr. 
Gilbert better. More than this, Mr. Gilbert was probably 
having a very dull evening — since there were few people 
there whom he knew intimately, — and it was her duty as 
a hostess to be pleasant to him. And Billy, after some 
delay and clearly out of pity for his friend, did as he was 
told. 

When he had gone Miss Hardy, with two or three deft 
touches, straightened some unruly crinkles in her skirt 
and sighed for a looking-glass. Then she leaned back 
against the balustrade in absolute abandon, with her left 
arm hanging loosely along the rail, and hummed the little 
lilt of a French song just loudly enough to attract the 
attention of anyone passing by, who had any curiosity. 
She was certain that John Gilbert had at least enough 
curiosity for that. A moment later he turned as he 
crossed below her, and saw the figure, almost elf-like as it 
huddled on the stairway, the mischievous black eyes and 


128 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


the tantalizing smile about half-closed lips. He stood 
for a second as if undecided, and the song broke off. 

“ Won’t you sit down?” she asked. 

He responded with a naive shyness which, it seemed to 
her, made his awkwardness singularly graceful. He sat 
down opposite her on the stair below, with his hands 
clasped over one knee and with the other long leg sprawled 
at full length. He looked across at her, his irregular 
features distorted into a frank smile. 

“This is mighty good of you,” he said simply. 

Subterfuge and generalship suddenly vanished from 
Clare Hardy’s mind. 

“Nonsense. I asked Billy to send you this way. I 
wanted to know you better.” 

“And I want to know you,” he answered with boyish 
eagerness. “Do you know, Miss Hardy, this is the first 
bit of frankness I’ve met to-night.” 

“Of course,” she said with sudden cynicism. “Most 
people are so commonplace that they’re deadly dull even 
when they are insincere. What would they be if they 
told the truth? How have you been celebrating to-day? ” 

“Fussing with a lot of machines at the shop.” He 
grinned good-humoredly over his holiday. 

Miss Hardy’s eyebrows wrinkled slightly. 

“Isn’t that a mistake?” 

“You mean that it seems selfish to keep working all the 
time. Perhaps; but there are a lot of men I know, who 
are really unselfish, but who have to live selfish lives.” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I meant that it’s a mistake 
to give up everything else, the finer things, you know, 
books and pictures and people.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 129 


Gilbert nodded gravely. 

“Yes,” he said, “it’s a mistake. It's a mistake for me 
to be built like a derrick, but I can’t help it. It’s a mis- 
take to want food and a place to sleep. It’s a mistake to 
be poor. Sometimes, when I’m tired, that seems to me 
the biggest mistake of all. But it isn’t. There are lots 
of worse things.” 

“I don’t think I should mind being poor,” said Miss 
Hardy dreamily. 

“ Being poor is all right if you can forget it.” 

“Of course, you never get discouraged, you men who 
have things to do, things that make you forget.” 

“Don’t I? Why, some nights, I come home feeling 
like a limp dishrag inside.” 

“Inside but not outside,” she suggested. 

“Well, 1 outside’ wouldn’t do. Somebody might take 
you at your face value, and wipe dishes with you.” 

Clare Hardy laughed. 

“Tell me about that man you hired who was a thief. I 
think Dad didn’t altogether like it. What made you do 
it?” 

“ It was sheer impulse, Miss Hardy. Perhaps a grown 
man wouldn’t ’ve done it.” He smiled over at her boy- 
ishly. Then he told her Heffler’s story, mentioning him- 
self only when it was necessary to show Hefiler’s sensi- 
tiveness about obligations. When he told her of the 
man’s emotion at being trusted there were tears in her 
eyes, and she stopped him suddenly. 

“Do you believe in being impulsive?” she asked. 

“Sometimes; why?” 

“ Because I impulsively want to shake hands with you.” 


130 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


He caught her hand eagerly, but with a gentle reverence 
that made something in her heart catch and stop for a 
second before going on. 

“This is your impulse shaking hands with my impulse,” 
he explained beamingly. “For if Pd allowed myself to 
reason about it I probably shouldn’t have done it.” 

“Of course you won’t give him a chance to steal 
again?” Miss Hardy, her face slightly flushed, was look- 
ing down into the hall. She wondered if anyone had seen 
them. 

“ He is handling a good deal of money. He’s assisting 
the paymaster.” 

She turned to him quickly. 

“Really? Isn’t that risky?” 

“I told him I trusted him, didn’t I? I’d be a slushy 
sort of a man if I told him that and then didn’t trust him. 
Of course, there are the usual checks on him, but that’s 
all. He’s all right, Joe Heffler is, and he’s going to have 
a chance to prove it to everybody.” 

Gilbert brought a doubled fist down hard upon his 
knee, and looked across at the girl so fiercely that she 
laughed and he laughed with her. 

“I suppose that’s the reason the men like you, because 
you’re so honest.” 

“That’s the reason why I like the men,” he answered 
quickly, “because they’re 'on the level’ with me.” 

Miss Hardy stared thoughtfully past him for a moment. 

“ It’s a real man’s work in the world,” she said slowly. 
“It’s fine to do things.” 

“The only trouble is you only want to do other things 
—bigger things.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 131 


‘/I’ve always said,” nodded Miss Hardy recklessly, 
“that when my ship came in I was going to find the best 
man in the world, and we’d buy a house in Venice. There 
shouldn’t be anything in that house I didn’t like, and 
we’d live there three months in a year and travel the 
other nine. And when we were tired of that we’d do 
something else. But the ship isn’t even in sight, and I 
mope around here doing nothing, calling on people who 
don’t want to see me and receiving people I don’t want 
to see.” 

She flushed under the quizzical look of his eyes. 

“Well, what do you think of it?” she asked. 

“I think it’s tommyrot, and so do you.” 

“ It’s me,” she insisted. 

“It isn’t any more you than a whirling dervish is an 
angel.” 

There were sounds of stamping feet on the porch and 
the bell rang vigorously. Miss Hardy, thankful for the 
interruption, started up with quick energy and stumbled 
over Gilbert’s foot. Undoubtedly she would have fallen 
if he had not caught her arm firmly. 

“I always stumble at nothing,” she cried petulantly, as 
she regained her balance. 

“Thank you,” was the smiling answer. Their eyes met 
and Miss Hardy’s embarrassment vanished into good 
humor. She hurried down to the door, and a second later 
she beckoned to Gilbert. He noticed her perplexed look 
as he passed her. And the look grew more perplexed 
when, instead of stopping at the door, he went outside 
with a muffled exclamation and almost closed it behind 
him. She picked up a book from the hall table and 


132 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


opened it, but she listened to the sounds of subdued con- 
versation outside. When Gilbert returned she dropped 
the book and met him inquiringly. 

“Is anything wrong?” she asked. She saw that his 
face was set and frowning. There was a woman’s tender 
anxiety in her eyes that gripped Gilbert’s heart strangely 
as he looked down into them. 

“Oh, no, but I want to see your father, and then I’m 
afraid I’ll have to go.” 

Reproach replaced anxiety in her look as she turned 
away. She found Mr. Hardy quickly, but when they 
reached the hallway Gilbert was already pacing the floor 
anxiously, his rain-coat and overshoes on and his slouch 
hat in his hand. 

“I’m sorry I’ve got to go, Mr. Hardy,” he said. Then 
he hesitated as he glanced from father to daughter and 
back again. “Is there any directors’ meeting to-mor- 
row?” he asked. 

Hardy shook his head. “Not till September,” he said. 
The wind slammed a shutter in the next room and he 
started violently. He looked very old and haggard to 
Gilbert that night. His eyes had a kind of nervous, 
hunted look, and the wrinkles about them seemed deeper 
than usual. Gilbert felt the impulse strongly to tell “ the 
old man” why he was leaving, but he remembered the 
vigorous command he had been given about not talking 
of “things that weren’t any of his business.” So he said 
good-night with awkward gratitude, and hurried out just 
as Mrs. Hardy and Billy McNish came in from the library. 

“Mr. Gilbert had to go early, mother,” said the girl, 
slipping her hand in Mrs. Hardy’s arm. “ He asked me 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


133 


to say good-night to you for him/’ she added unhesita- 
tingly, although Gilbert in his hurry had forgotten to say 
anything of the sort. Mr. Hardy turned to Billy McNish. 

“I didn't know Jack went in much for politics,” he 
remarked. 

“ I don't think he does.” Billy spoke indifferently. 

“I hope not,” said Hardy wearily, as he started up the 
stairs, “for a man can't be my superintendent and Mayor 
at the same time, and I'd hate to lose him.” 

Billy's attitude changed amazingly to one of acute 
interest, and Miss Hardy stopped at the music-room door. 

“What do you mean?” asked Billy. 

“I hear that Moriarty and some of the rest have been 
sounding men at the shops about it, that's all.” 

The old man laboriously continued on his way up the 
stairs. He was tired of the confusion and the noise and 
the merriment. He wanted to think and smoke. He had 
been worried all day about those notes he had sold in 
New York. In a week or two they would come due. 
Large orders he had been confident of taking had gone to 
the Westbury concern. Small,, unexpected repairs had 
eaten in on the money he had .laid aside. Business was 
slacking up for the usual summer's dullness with its high 
expenses and its small income. And there were these 
rumors about large purchases of Hardy stock, rumors 
that were all the more worrisome because of their mystery 
and uncertainty. Of course, he did not take them very 
seriously. Brett and Merrivale had always been friendly 
to him. He had elected the Mayor a director in return 
for a small “ground floor” allotment in the Street Railway 
Company, and Merrivale had “let him in on” some real- 


134 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


estate deals in exchange for a Hardy directorship. Un- 
doubtedly it was all right. But to-night all these things 
were crowding in upon him. They irritated him, and he 
shook his head, bulldog like, as if to drive them away. 
But they did not frighten him. Never for a moment did 
he doubt that, with his shops, he would beat them all 
back as he had other opposition in other days. 

It was long after midnight when the guests began to go. 
Carriages again rumbled outside in the steady rain that 
had followed the thunderstorm; doors slammed, echoing 
noisily in the deserted street; and the stereotyped good- 
night phrases were said, phrases for all the world like the 
phrases with which the French close their letters, to the 
patronizing amusement of our superior American mind. 
At last Billy Me Nish alone remained, at Miss Hardy's 
unspoken request. 

“I’m not a bit sleepy or tired,” she said. “I'd like to 
run a mile or two, or play tennis, or dance another hour. 
Let's go out and get wet.'' 

She returned a moment later, wrapped in her father’s 
gray mackintosh, which hung in folds about her, and with 
an old cap perched at a rakish angle on the side of her 
head. 

“No umbrella,” she commanded, the witchery of her 
smile just showing itself to Billy above the turned-up 
collar of the mackintosh. She made him secrete in his 
pockets a few huge, left-over firecrackers, and then she 
led him out into the night. Once off the steps she darted 
away from him, and, when he caught her at the gate, she 
laughed till she cried because he slipped and went down 
upon his knee in a puddle. She suggested stealing some 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 135 


flowers from the Me Nish garden, and then gave it up 
because he told her to help herself. She rated him for 
being sober and solemn, and, to please her, of course, he 
assumed a priestly air and sang mock Gregorians until 
she begged him to stop. They held a council of war, and 
decided unanimously that the firecrackers would create 
more amusing havoc under crusty Mr. Butterson’s win- 
dow than elsewhere. And so they crossed the street, 
whispering and giggling like two small children, to the 
gaunt white frame house in which Mr. Butterson lived 
and, at the moment, slept. 

It had taken Colonel Mead nearly two hours to decide 
to see Jack that night. According to his custom he had 
tramped down to the post-office just as the storm was 
beginning. Nothing ever stopped the Colonel from car- 
rying out the regular routine of his simple life, and getting 
the mail at night was as necessary to him now as roll- 
call had been years before. When he had read his letters 
at home he sat down without taking off the long rubber 
boots which he wore in spite of conventions, and he 
fingered thoughtfully the little enclosure, signed by Robert 
Brett, that called him to a special meeting of the board of 
directors of Hardy & Son the next morning at eleven 
o’clock. Then he threw it into the waste-basket and 
picked up a book, but he forgot to take off his boots. 
After a time he put the book down and rescued the paper 
from the basket. Then he repeated the entire operation 
and finally, swearing under his breath, he stamped out 
into the night and up the street to Gilbert’s house. When 
he found that Gilbert was at Mr. Hardy’s he hesitated 


136 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


again, and argued that Jack’s absence was providence tell- 
ing him to let the thing alone; but nevertheless his rheu- 
matic legs seemed to carry him naturally to the Hardy 
house. 

“ If the old man knew anything about the meeting he’d 
’ve signed the call himself,” Gilbert said, as they talked on 
the porch. “ He likes to sign everything. Something’s in 
the wind, something, perhaps, to get him out of the way. 
More likely it’s something to get the directors down on 
him, so that the other crowd can get control in the Fall.” 

“ I ain’t much on the ways o’ doin’ civilized business,” 
interrupted the Colonel. “D’ye mean they’re goin’ to 
hang the old man up now, thinkin’ mebbe he’ll be dead 
enough to cut down by September?” 

“Something like that.” Gilbert was thinking rapidly. 
“ Perhaps it’s a scheme to make the stock cheap. Lord, 
it might be anything. Only one thing dead sure and that 
is, it’s a snap meeting. It’s up to us to see that every 
director is there. That’s what they won’t expect.” 

“Up to us?” flared the Colonel. “I ain’t heard thet 
Hardy’s sent out fer any relief party. Let him do his 
own fightin’. Ye kin probly git more rations from the 
other side anyhow.” 

Gilbert shook his head and turned to go in. 

“ I’ll find out whether the old man knows about it,” he 
said. 

“I’ll git the horse,” returned the Colonel, tacking 
quickly before Gilbert’s decision. “We’ll hev to go to 
Tareville an’ it ain’t good walkin’.” 

“Oh, I’ll get along all right, Colonel. It’s too nasty a 
night for you to be out. You ought to be in bed now.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 137 


“Too nasty a night?” the Colonel grunted angrily. 
“Ought to be in bed, hed I? Thet's what the doctor sed 
to me down in New Erleens. I certainly wuz totterin' 
around like a sick steer and ez white ez I wuz when I 
struck gold. * Ye've got Yella Jack,' he says. ‘ Ye're a 
liar,' sez I, an' I goes over to a saloon, and the bartender 
is so scared of me that he's going to hev me pitched out — 
only he doesn't, seein' I git the drop on him. I drinks a 
whole quart of whiskey raw, and goes to bed with my 
shoes on. There isn't any undertaker a workin’ over me 
the next mornin’, tho' I'll allow so much bad whiskey 
leaves me high an’ dry an' gaspin'. Now you git yer 
feet movin' or I'll be here 'fore ye’re ready,” and the 
grizzled old man stamped off down the steps. 

When he drove up, some fifteen minutes later, he found 
Gilbert waiting for him, and together they went in to see 
Mr. McNish. They had scarcely stated their errand when 
McNish broke in with genial abruptness. 

“I’m a good deal in the position of Tom Dalton down 
at Spottsylvania,” he said. “Tom was sent out as a spy, 
and he was chumming up with a parcel of Johnnies at a 
rebel outpost when his own regiment surrounded them 
and took them prisoners. They were all marched to the 
rear an’ examined, Tom, dressed in faded butternut, with 
the rest. When they came to examine 'em and got to 
Tom, he remarked, ‘Ye needn't waste any time on me. 
I’m a sergeant in A Company.' Said afterwards that he'd 
never been a rebel prisoner before, and that it was a great 
deal more fun than being a Yankee spy. So,” con- 
tinued the kindly gentleman, “you needn't waste any 
time on me.” 


138 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


They soon found that they needed every minute Mr. 
McNish had saved for them. One man they pursued to 
the Hampstead Club, and dragged him from a game of 
whist to make him reluctantly promise attendance at the 
next morning’s meeting. They spent the better part of 
half an hour, arguing another into postponing until after- 
noon a trip out of town. They broke into a patriotic 
meeting at the Hampstead Y. M. C. A. to find a third, 
and were forced to wait until, covered with glory and 
perspiration, he finished amid great applause his remarks 
and his gestures concerning “The Flag We Love.” Of 
course, after this applause he agreed readily. Then they 
started for Tareville. The others were only too certain 
to be present. 

It was five miles to Tareville, five long miles, over 
roads thick with sticky red mud, with the rain beating 
steadily in their faces and trickling down into every tiny 
opening in their covering. 

“Better jog along rapid,” the Colonel said, giving the 
horse the rein when they had passed the last groups of 
houses. “ I’d rather ask a favor of a man that hedn’t hed 
his dinner than of a man I’d woke up in the middle of the 
night.” 

Jack nodded, and then started to a sitting posture, as 
the Colonel emitted a loud whoop that carried far out into 
the wet darkness. Then, as the carriage careened and 
swayed down the roadway, a dim light ahead turned 
quickly to the left. A minute later they whirled past 
a team pulled up by the roadside, and saw, in a flash, the 
white, frightened face of the driver. The Colonel laughed 
boisterously. On they went, each gripping the buggy 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 139 


and watching the road ahead, where the lantern, hung 
beneath, threw its flickering light among weird shadows 
that played about the horse’s beating hoofs. Other teams 
turned out at the Colonel’s piercing call, and the panting 
livery horse ruled the road for perhaps the first time in 
its humdrum life. 

The house of the Tareville director was dark when they 
reached it, but he appeared in dressing-gown and slip- 
pers, in answer to their repeated ringing. And partly 
because, as he explained, he was an old friend of Sam 
Hardy’s father, and, perhaps, partly because he was in a 
hurry to be back in bed, he assured them quickly that he 
would come to Hampstead for the meeting. 

They jogged slowly homeward, the Colonel scrooged 
down in the seat, trying to keep dry. Gilbert sat straight, 
peering thoughtfully into the darkness. 

“Unless they’ve got something big up their sleeve, we 
can hold them; if the old man don’t get somebody mad.” 

“ Hardy’s like a renegade cayuse,” growled the Colonel. 
“Ye can’t lead him ner drive him. Ye’ve got to git on 
his back and lick him into the trail.” 

“You’ve got to handle the meeting,” remarked Gilbert. 

The Colonel only swore viciously for an answer, and 
Jack was satisfied. As they neared Hampstead the horse 
pricked up its ears at the familiar surroundings and broke 
into a steady trot. Down West Hill they rumbled, when 
suddenly two figures started out of nowhere, it seemed, 
into the road directly before them. With a hoarse shout 
of warning Gilbert caught the reins from the Colonel’s 
hands and lay back against the seat, his feet braced, 
pulling with all the strength of his big body. 


140 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Other cries answered his, spontaneous cries of warning 
and fear. In the sudden struggle to get out of the way 
Billy McNish slipped in the wet street, and by a last effort 
threw Clare Hardy aside. The horse slid along on his 
haunches, pawing the air with his forelegs directly over 
Billy’s prostrate form. Then there was a quick flash of 
gray beneath the pawing beast, and Billy was dragged 
clear. He was scarcely out of danger when there came 
the report of a bursting firecracker from Mr. Butterson’s 
front lawn, and the horse danced nervously away to the 
right at the pull of the rein. The girl laughed hysterically 
in the sudden silence. 

“Them fools hurt?” queried the Colonel to Gilbert, who 
had leaped out and caught the horse’s head. 

“No, I guess not.” Gilbert was facing Miss Hardy, 
her mackintosh smirched with mud, and Billy, dripping 
with dirty water — a strange pair in the light from the arc- 
lamp on the corner. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he 
laughed and they laughed with him, shamefacedly, like 
two culprits who have unexpectedly been caught. 

“ My fault, old man,” said Billy, with a little tremble in 
his voice, “but Clare pulled me out.” 

“The bravest thing I ever saw done, Miss Hardy.” 
Gilbert was quickly serious, but Miss Hardy merely 
laughed again hysterically. 

When the two men reached the Colonel’s gate, the old 
veteran, when he had stiffly stepped to the ground, leaned 
over the muddy wheel to say good-night. 

“ I want to give you a bit o’ worldly advice, Jack,” he 
remarked. “Things go by opposites in this world. Ef 
ye do things fer other people ye’ll respect yerself, but ef 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 141 


ye do things fer yerself other people ’ll respect you. Ye’ve 
got to take yer choice. It’s a sure thing ’at Hardy won’t 
thank ye fer anything ye do fer him.” 

Mrs. Gilbert was waiting for him when Jack reached 
home. He could not remember a time when, as a boy or 
man, he had ever come back at any hour without finding 
her ready to greet him. This time she was eager to know 
about the evening at the Hardys’, and, for the first time 
in his life, he consciously deceived her. The mud on his 
clothes was from some passing team; nearly everyone 
had stayed late; and he hastened on guiltily to describe 
the women’s gowns — with masculine crudeness — and 
events that had not occurred and the friendliness of every- 
body, which he had not experienced. 

“And Miss Hardy?” questioned Mrs. Gilbert insinu- 
atingly, when she was satisfied. 

“Ask Billy McNish.” Gilbert smiled, but not in his 
heart. 

At about the same time Miss Hardy, in a trailing 
kimono, was lounging in a huge Morris chair in the tower 
of the Hardy house. “The bravest thing I ever saw 
done.” The words were echoing insistently, proudly in 
her mind. And when she fell asleep, half an hour later, 
they were still dinning dully in her ears. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE COLONEL MAKES A SPEECH 

T HE rain stopped toward daybreak, and when Gil- 
bert left the house and joined the long lines of 
men who filed down to the silent factories, the 
sun was glinting brightly on the wet, turned leaves that 
shadowed the walks. Most of the men slouched along 
lazily, under the spell of the hot, enervating morning, but 
when Hardy & Son's seven o'clock whistle blew, the mill 
awoke like a great monster of power, and shook itself, and 
breathed forth streams of black smoke, and growled and 
hummed and snarled as the men, grouped in their accus- 
tomed places, forced it's thousand tentacles to pierce and 
bruise and shape and polish the hard metal. Activity took 
the place of laziness, although it was hotter in the shop 
than in the sun outdoors; and the workers forgot tempo- 
rarily the sick wives and children at home, the unpaid 
bills, bickering friends and sullen enemies, in the steady 
pulse-beat of the machinery, the drive of an all-engrossing 
task. None of them except Gilbert, pacing the various 
rooms trying to keep his eye from the clock and his mind 
from wondering what would happen at eleven in Hardy’s 
office, dreamed that there was a shadow hanging over the 
restless, pulsing mills. And if they had known they would 
not have cared unless they had feared that it might affect 
them. A regular job and regular pay; these were their 

142 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 143 


only interests in the shops. They hated Hardy because 
he constantly menaced these interests. Their lives were 
in grooves that ran from their homes to their machines 
and back, and they had banded together to make these 
grooves solid and immovable. 

Gilbert, in dirty overalls, went from room to room, 
talking with superintendents and foremen. Everywhere 
he seemed to see this morning, as never before, the need of 
new machines, traces of expensive waste, evidences of 
lack of interest. He went out into the yard, and saw men 
toiling above him, across bridges between buildings, with 
loads which should have been ferried across on automatic 
travelers. Then his thoughts, attracted as if by a magnet, 
swung back to the meeting and to the uncertain future. 

“What are you doing, Jack?” growled Mr. Hardy, 
coming suddenly upon him. 

“ Fm thinking,” said Gilbert simply, as he turned with 
a smile. 

“Well, I don’t pay you to think,” said the old man 
crossly, as he turned on his heel. Some workmen nearby 
overheard and laughed covertly. Gilbert’s hands clenched 
and then relaxed. Then he walked on toward the build- 
ing opposite. And he was still there when, an hour later, 
he was summoned to the president’s office. 

Mr. Hardy was on his way back to his office when he 
spoke to Gilbert. He passed Miss Gerty Smith coming 
through his own door with a sheaf of papers in her hand. 
Reaching his desk, he found an unopened letter which had 
evidently been mislaid from the morning’s mail. He tore 
it open and read a duplicate of the call for a directors’ 
meeting which the Colonel had received the night before. 


144 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Then he took his glasses from the desk where he had left 
them and re-read it. Then he looked at the clock. It 
was after a quarter of eleven. Two things came to his 
mind: the rumors of Hubbard and the stock, and John 
Gilbert’s question as he left the house on the previous 
night. His hand reached out to ring a bell for Jack, but 
it wavered and stepped. He went to the front window 
and looked out. When he came back to the desk, his 
coarse lower jaw protruded defiantly and his face was 
purple with anger. He took a stiff drink of whiskey 
from the bottle in the desk drawer, and lit a long black 
cigar. Then he swung his seat about so as to face the 
door and waited. For nearly ten minutes he sat there, 
tense and motionless as a great beast at bay faces an 
expected attack. Mr. McNish was the first to meet his 
burning eyes, and, being a man of peace, McNish sat down 
by the farther window. To him and to the rest as they 
came Hardy merely jerked his head roughly for a greet- 
ing, but he straightened and grew more rigid when, last 
of all, Mr. Brett and Mr. Merrivale came in together. 
Hardy might have protested against the snap meeting, 
but the thought never entered his mind. 

“Come to order,” he snapped. “Somebody state the 
business.” 

Captain Merrivale arose in the uncomfortable silence 
that followed. He had been manifestly surprised that 
the entire board was present. 

“I am gratified,” he said with oratorical emphasis, 
“that every director of the concern is here, for I have a 
matter of grave importance to bring before this meeting. 
Very recently,” he went on after a deliberate pause, “I 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 145 


learned with surprise that notes of this concern amount- 
ing to upwards of fifty thousand dollars had been sold in 
New York. They were signed by the president, but have 
certainly never been authorized by this board. I think 
the matter demands explanation.” Captain Merrivale 
did not look at Mr. Hardy when he sat down. He stared 
instead, with an assumed air of nonchalance, at the ceil- 
ing. There was a full moment of silence. Then Sam 
Hardy’s voice, loud and hard, broke it: 

“ There ain’t any explanations. I’ve made this shop 
and, by God, I’ll run this shop without any interference 
from you or anybody else,” and he shook his finger men- 
acingly at Merrivale. “ If this board wants another pres- 
ident,” he went on, glaring at the others, “I’ll get out, but 
while I’m here I don’t want any special directors’ meetings 
nor any questions asked.” 

Once before at a directors’ meeting he had said almost 
the same thing, and at that time they had bowed before 
his anger and begged for pardon and declared that it was 
all a misunderstanding. But now they were silent, all 
except Mayor Brett, who sat motionless by the office table. 

“Suppose,” he said in his hard, even voice, “suppose 
we consider seriously Mr. Hardy’s last suggestion.” 

There was triumph in Merrivale’s eyes, for Hardy was 
playing directly into their hands. Sam Hardy leaned 
forward, brutal with anger, the veins standing out in his 
neck like whipcords, his fists clenched and hard as flint, 
when the Colonel broke the tension with an explosive 
chuckle. 

“This ain’t a directors’ meetin’,” he said. “This is a 
cock-fight. ‘Let us hev peace,’ ez Grant used to say, at 


146 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


least long enough fer the rest o’ us to find out exactly 
what the skirmish is about. How long/ 7 he continued, 
turning to Merrivale, "hev ye known about them notes? 
Ye said 'very recently. 7 How long? 77 

Merrivale shifted nervously in his chair, but Mayor 
Brett eyed the Colonel impassively. 

“I've only known it a — a few days. 77 The slight em- 
phasis upon the personal pronoun was Merrivale 7 s sop to 
his Sunday conscience. The Colonel was quick to use it, 
however. 

" But somebody else hes, eh, Mr. Merrivale? Now I 7 ve 
alluz played the game plumb open, no cards up m 7 sleeve, 
an 7 Fll bet ye an 7 give ye odds thet Mr. Alonzo Hubbard 
hez known about it fer a good deal more 7 n a few days. 77 

Mayor Brett came to Merrivale’s rescue. 

"We aren’t here to bet, Colonel Mead. We’re here to 
talk business. 77 

The Mayor’s seeming indifference to the opinions of 
others, his short, curt remarks, and his general attitude of 
aloofness were the secrets of his power. Hampstead peo- 
ple looked up to him chiefly because he looked down upon 
them. There was a hardness about him, moreover, and 
a steely gleam in his little beady eyes that made weak 
men fear him. He was one of those men, who, when you 
pass them on the streets, make you instinctively feel in 
your pocket for your purse, to be certain that it is still there. 

"Just ez you say,” continued the Colonel, satisfied that 
his guess was correct and that his point had been made 
with the independent directors. "It alluz makes me 
peevish to win on a dead sure thing. When did you call 
this meetin 7 , Mr. Secretary? 77 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 147 


“Yesterday/’ was Brett’s laconic answer. 

“When did you get yer notice?” The Colonel turned 
to Sam Hardy. 

“About fifteen minutes ago,” snarled the old man. 

“Huh,” ejaculated the Colonel, with another chuckle. 
“Thet’s a good deal like shootin’ a man an’ then an- 
nouncin’ of his legal execution to him afterwards. Now, 
ef ye’ll allow me, I think I kin elucydate to the gentlemen 
of the board of directors” — and the Colonel could not 
restrain from emphasizing the word “gentlemen” — “the 
case as it appears to me. I’ll tell ye, detailed, a story that 
mebbe won’t assay first class as to truth, but which, fer 
illustrative perposes, is better’n a circus-poster — the 
which, I reckon, is what ye’d name a par’ble. Thar wuz 
once a man out in the cattle country thet hed a big ranch, 
an’ enemies ez thick ez bunch grass. He wuz ez pig- 
headed ez ’n obstinate woman, an’ ef anyone set foot 
within a mile of him, he went out of his way to tread on 
the toes o’ thet foot. His neighbors they appreciated his 
ranch, but they ’lowed thet he’d be a more useful citizen 
in some higher er lower territory. Thar wuz threats 
around about hangin’ him, and he heard ’em. An’, bein’ 
a fool ez well ez a brave man, he put a rope ’round his 
neck an’ went ridin’ round his ranch, boastful ez ever. 
Well, ’twasn’t long ’fore his neighbors got hold o’ the end 
o’ thet rope. An’ when they strung him up they all wuz 
ez innocent ez hull families unborn. They’d found him 
with the rope ’round his neck, they sed. Now, whether 
he wuz cut down in time er not, I ain’t decided. Ye kin 
finish the story in yer own way.” 

A puzzled, amused interest was evident on the faces of 


148 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


most of the directors as the Colonel finished his parable, 
but Captain Merrivale jumped to his feet, protesting. 

“I ain’t through yet,” went on the Colonel. “This is 
the first reel speech I ever made. I’ve prepared it care- 
ful an’ I calc’late to deliver it. Thar’s a lot o’ unhealthy 
personal feelin’ in this business. Th’ only way I know to 
git rid o’ bad blood is to spill it in a fair fight, an’ I reckon 
the rest of us here’d be glad to make a ring an’ cheer ye 
on impartial.” Everyone except the Mayor and Merri- 
vale smiled broadly at this suggestion. Even Hardy’s 
face relaxed. “But” — the Colonel grew suddenly seri- 
ous — “we’re here fer the good o’ this fact’ry. I say, of 
course, thet this note-selling business wuz a mistake, but, 
ef we wuz all chucked out o’ things every time we made a 
mistake, I reckon thar wouldn’t be anybody a holdin’ 
down steady jobs. The first thing we’ve got to do is to 
see that these notes are paid, an’ the next is to see thet 
it ain’t ever necessary again to sell any notes. We’ve 
been takin’ so little interest that it ain’t onnatural thet 
Hardy here thinks he’s the hull outfit. This concern’s 
makin’ a lot o’ stuff, but it ain’t makin’ much money. 
I’d like to ask yer sup’rintendent some questions ’fore 
I go on.” 

While the Colonel was talking Mr. Brett and Captain 
Merrivale were having a whispered conversation, but now 
they leaned back quickly in their chairs, — Merrivale ob- 
viously surprised and disappointed at the turn affairs had 
taken, and a sardonic smile on the Mayor’s face alone 
showing any emotion he may have felt. Sam Hardy 
hesitated a moment, looking questioningly first at the 
Colonel and then at the others. Then he leaned over to 





The Colonel makes a speech . 


6 ( 


59 














































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THE BALANCE OF POWER 149 


his desk, rang the bell for Gilbert, and sat rigid once more, 
his arms folded. 

The room was silent when Gilbert entered. It is doubt- 
ful if any two men anticipated exactly the same result 
from his coming. 

“This is the Board of Directors, Jack,” said Hardy 
without looking at him. “They want to ask you some 
questions.” 

The Colonel nodded to him with a whimsical smile. 

“We want to know,” he said, “ef somethin’ can’t be 
done to make goods cheaper?” 

Grouped about the table and by the window, the eight 
men waited expectantly to hear what the big workman 
in overalls, his hands black with grease, would say, while 
Hardy, in his official isolation, stared aimlessly at the 
floor. Gilbert looked across at the president doubtfully. 
He could not understand how it had happened that he 
was summoned or why Mr. Hardy sat silent; but he caught 
the Colonel’s anxious nod. 

“ Yes,” he said quickly. “ I have plans for that, which 
have been shown to Mr. Hardy and put aside temporarily 
on account of — of the expense, I think.” 

“Trot ’em out.” The Colonel was ruling the meeting 
with a high hand, and he was enjoying it hugely. Many 
of the other directors seemed to be enjoying it also, and 
the atmosphere of the room had lost its tenseness. The 
meeting was a novelty to them all, for previous Hardy 
directors’ meetings had been formal, cut-and-dried affairs 
with nothing gained or lost by either attendance or 
absence. 

When Gilbert returned with his precious papers they 


150 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


listened to him steadily for more than twenty minutes, as 
he described the factory’s needs and outlined his plans. 
His face was flushed and he talked with the assurance of 
achievement, readily and vividly. He went into almost 
exhaustive detail about the saving of each proposed 
machine, about the ways in which waste might be utilized, 
about the patents he wished to apply for whenever his 
plans were worked out, about the men and their relations 
to the problem; and they listened, many of them as much 
interested in the man as they were in his schemes for the 
mills. Sam Hardy, however, alternately watched the 
Colonel and Gilbert, and his face grew grim, hard, malev- 
olent; so obviously so, indeed, that it attracted the 
beady eyes of the Mayor, who suddenly awoke from his 
passivity, in the middle of Gilbert’s explanations, long 
enough to whisper to Captain Merrivale. The Captain, 
who had been fidgeting in his chair, turned quickly and 
looked at Mr. Hardy. His expression grew more alert; 
he smiled and nodded. 

“ What ’ll the hull thing cos^?” asked the Colonel while 
Gilbert folded up his papers. 

“Between fifty and seventy-five thousand dollars, I 
should say, but it can be done, of course, gradually.” 

Two or three other questions were asked and answered. 
Then Gilbert hurried back to his office with the papers, 
and from there out into the shop for the last few minutes 
of a waning morning. He was absent-minded over his 
work, however, for he was wondering how it had all come 
about and what it might mean to him and to Hardy & 
Son. 

Meanwhile Sam Hardy was speaking, the moment the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 151 


door slammed behind Gilbert. He looked combatively 
directly at the Colonel. 

“Pm pretty sure I can take up those notes all right. 
Knew I could from the start. And these plans of my 
superintendent, I can look after them, too. I intended 
to, anyhow, those of them that are any good, whenever I 
can get to it.” 

The Colonel rose to his feet once more and his eyes met 
Hardy's fighting gaze steadily. 

“ Thar's a surplus, so I've been told — I naturally 
wouldn't know anything about it, bein' only a humble 
director in Hardy & Son,” he interjected sarcastically — 
“ a surplus of more'n two hundred thousand dollars. I 
therefore move ye, Mister President, that this board of 
directors hereby appropriate the sum of fifty thousand 
dollars o' that surplus toward the takin' up of these notes. 
I also move ye that Mister John Gilbert be to-day elected 
General Manager of this concern, and that fifty thousand 
dollars be appropriated fer the carryin' on o' his plans 
fer puttin' Hardy & Son on hand-shakin' terms with 
dividends an' prosperity.” 

Sam Hardy shook his head angrily when the Colonel 
sat down. 

“That surplus mustn't be touched,” he shouted. “It 
isn't needed. Nobody with any pride in this company 
would suggest such a thing.” 

Colonel Mead, meanwhile, was being advised by Mr. 
McNish to put his motions separately. This he imme- 
diately did, and they were carried, one after another, with 
only the director from Tareville voting in opposition. 
Mayor Brett and Merrivale both voted “aye,” and the 


152 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Colonel realized that they were taking the only way left 
to them of weakening Sam Hardy. He only shrugged 
his shoulders, however, and when the meeting adjourned 
— just as the whistle blew for the noon hour — he hurried 
out with Mr. McNish to look for Gilbert. 

The door closed behind the last of the directors, the 
man from Tareville, who alone stopped to add a genial 
word to the president. Sam Hardy again sat alone at 
his desk. He felt suddenly faint and, rising, he stumbled 
across to the window and feverishly breathed in deep gulps 
of air. From the window he could see the irregular line 
of dirty brick buildings, his shops that he had almost lost, 
and the men hustling out in noisy crowds. Sharp pains 
shot through the back of his head, and his body felt like 
an empty shell through which some heavy weight was 
pushing down, down, down, as if to crush out breath and 
life. For a moment he stood staring. Then he caught 
himself with quick tension, and, going over to the desk, 
he poured out with trembling hands a long drink of whis- 
key. Slowly his unstrung nerves steadied themselves 
with the stimulant. He thought more clearly. They 
had tried to take his shops away from him. Brett and 
Merrivale had turned on him, and perhaps Hubbard was 
behind them. They had taken half of his surplus, the 
surplus that had always been his pride. They had openly 
insulted him. And Jack Gilbert had known all about it 
beforehand. Jack Gilbert had engineered the whole thing 
to gain credit for himself and disgrace for him. He might 
have expected it, Hardy told himself bitterly. He closed 
down his desk and started out toward home. Outside, he 
looked back at the silent shops, which lay, instinct with 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 153 


power, resting in the summer sun; and the old lines of 
indomitable, stubborn will settled about his mouth and 
chin. 

“ Mr. Hardy,” called Gilbert’s- voice from behind him. 

The old man turned with a snarl. Gilbert had left the 
Colonel and Mr. Me Nish and was crossing the street to 
join him. 

“ I won’t talk to ye,” bellowed Mr. Hardy. “ I always 
thought you threw a straight ball, but now — I’ll get on to 
your curves, damn you.” He stamped off up the street. 
Gilbert returned to his friends, but he did not join in their 
laughter. His first flash of anger at “the old man’s” 
'unfairness gave way quickly, however, to a smile. Hardy’s 
remark brought back to his mind the half humorous, half 
pathetic picture of “the old man” standing in the rickety 
grandstand at Kemper’s Park, waving his umbrella 
frantically as the winning runs were scored- in a game 
between the nines of Hardy & Son and Hubbard & Wells. 

“He’ll be all right,” he said, “when he understands. 
Of course, I appreciate you’re doing it, Colonel, and I’m 
glad you did it, but I’m sorry you had to antagonize him.” 

“Can’t reason with a man like Hardy,” muttered the 
Colonel, “by slapping his face soft-like. Ye hev to black 
his eyes and bust his nose ’fore he begins to think.” 

“You’d better get proxies out for the regular stock- 
holders’ meeting in a hurry, — to-night,” went on Gilbert. 
“The other bunch will get ahead of us if you don’t. 
Hardy won’t think it’s necessary yet. It’ll be too late by 
the time we get ‘the old man’ to see things right.” 

“Suppose,” ventured Mr. McNish anxiously, “sup- 
pose he don’t ever see things right?” 


154 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Gilbert’s face was troubled as he stared at the thick-set 
figure far ahead on the other side of the street, but his 
voice was quiet and determined. 

“ We’ll have to fight him for his own sake, that’s all,” 
he said. 


CHAPTER X 


A THREE-CORNERED FIGHT 

OTHING was sacred in Hampstead, except busi- 



ness. Moriarty once remarked with more truth 
than good grammar: “If my Katie goes out in 


the backyard to hang up a close-line, sure ’tis all over the 
neighborhood in foive minutes.” And “all over the 
neighborhood ” meant all over the town, for Hampstead 
was in its growing-up period of a town’s life, the period of 
asking persistent questions, of hearing things not intended 
for its ears, and of telling all that it heard and much more 
than it knew. Its house-cats often seemed wistful over 
their dumbness. But business was comparatively sacred. 
The Hardy & Son directors’ meeting, therefore, brought 
before the townspeople merely the personal fact that John 
Gilbert had been made the general manager of the fac- 
tory, and they bowed to him in the street more respect- 
fully and remembered that they had always thought him 
a promising young man. 

Gilbert himself was too busy, however, to notice their 
new attitude or to care what they thought. All summer 
long he actually lived at the shops. On the afternoon of 
the directors’ meeting he had ordered some of the simple 
automatic machines he had planned, from large machine 
shops in Hampstead and Westbury. He enlarged his own 
machine room, and set the men there at work under his 


155 


156 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


own supervision on three more intricate machines. On 
some inventions he applied for patents, but others he in- 
corporated into the machines, trusting more to the privacy 
of his shop than to the publicity of the patent office. He 
turned the force of men — many of them day laborers — 
who were usually laid off in the summer, to the work of 
installing the automatic traveler and the waste-utilizing 
devices he bought or built. Others found themselves 
dragged away from their regular work to move machinery 
and shafting; a bookkeeper helped build a new shute; 
and two or three idle shipping clerks cleaned up and sorted 
scrap that had accumulated in valuable proportions in 
unexpected hidden comers. Violence was done daily to 
union rules and union precedent. Jethro and Tom 
Grady and a few others grumbled about it, but their 
grumbling was drowned in the noisy whirl of the work. 

Of course, there were many of the men who dragged 
themselves along in the old way, hearing only the whistle 
calling them to work or sending them home again; but the 
majority of them fell into step behind Gilbert as he 
marched steadily and untiringly forward. Carpenters 
hurried in and out, and an occasional electrician or mason. 
Everything seemed a rushing, aimless hurly-burly, but 
always Gilbert or one of the foremen brought order out 
of the chaos. He camped at the shop every noon, eating 
his lunch with anyone and everyone, taking them into 
his confidence as far as he could, urging them on, thank- 
ing them, filling them full of his own enthusiasm and de- 
termination. At night he was often at the shops, conduct- 
ing a kind of impromptu night school among certain 
groups of younger men who were learning their trades. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


157 


And, all the time, the big mill was in some way disgorging 
daily, goods enough to meet the relaxed summer demand. 

Day by day Gilbert realized more fully the immensity 
of the work he had planned, and day by day he enjoyed 
more every detail of it. This was what he had been un- 
consciously seeking, a chance to grapple with a great task 
and to manufacture an achievement, huge, iron-framed 
and pulsing with power. And often, late at night, he lay 
in his bed, staring into the darkness, and smiling over the 
work of the day that had gone and of the day to come. 

Long before the summer was over he had reason to be 
thankful for his big awkward body and its capacity for 
enduring fatigue, and for his slow, steady mind which a 
hundred worries seldom put off the straight track to the 
ends he sought. Of course, there were many worries; — the 
greatest of them the coming stockholders’ meeting, which 
hung menacing above his highest hopes like a Damocles’ 
sword, and Sam Hardy’s sustained antagonism. Hardy 
seldom left the office now, and when he did appear in the 
shops he ostentatiously ignored his superintendent. He 
snubbed Gilbert so openly when Jack, in his direct way, 
tried to tell him the plain truth about the directors’ meet- 
ing, that Gilbert’s pride made him give it up hopelessly. 
After a long talk with Gilbert, genial Mr. McNish went to 
see “the old man,” but he came away so bubbling over 
with anger as to be almost incoherent, declaring that he 
had forever “washed his hands of Sam Hardy.” Then 
Gilbert tried Billy as a last resort. Billy listened to all 
that Gilbert told him with an air of judicial aloofness, that 
would have been amusing if it had not been so unlike him. 
He said only that he doubted his own influence with Mr. 


158 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Hardy in the matter, but he was so obviously indifferent 
and he watched Gilbert in such a carefully prepared, 
heavy-lidded, speculative way, that at last Jack broke 
out with: 

“Honest, Billy, anybody ’Id think you believed as 
Hardy does.” 

“ Fm not quite sure, you know, what I do believe,” was 
Billy’s hesitating answer. 

Gilbert, entirely concentrated in the factory problems, 
and without a thought of politics in his mind, stared, 
frankly astonished at his friend. Then he rose and picked 
up his hat. 

“ All right, Billy,” he said, and turned to go. 

“There’s something I should like to say,” said Billy, 
rising also and assuming a melodramatic pose. 

“Don’t say it, Billy. We both might be sorry.” 

That Billy should doubt his motives hurt Gilbert more 
than the failure of his last attempt to reconcile “the old 
man.” If an old friend like Billy questioned his good 
faith, what must be her attitude toward him? He gave up 
his work that night to make his delayed “party call” at 
the Hardys’. It was a bold experiment, but he had made 
up his mind to know what to expect from her. He had 
other feelings about it, also, but he did not permit himself 
to analyze them. He came away from the door of the 
Hardy house, with his lips pursed in a forced smile. He 
had heard her voice while the maid was telling him that 
she was not at home. Well, that was done with, at any 
rate. Done with! He knew suddenly that if it was true, 
if “that was done with,” the whole achievement, that he 
was building by day and lying awake nights to plan, 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 159 


would ring hollow. He knew suddenly that, without her 
to share it with him, success was only black failure, gilded 
perhaps but black underneath. He knew suddenly that 
he loved her, and the knowledge shook him strangely. 
He walked for hours that night, and when he came back 
his shoulders were squared and his head was held high and 
there was a new light in his eyes. 

Proxies to represent the stockholders at the September 
meeting had been sent out immediately, as Gilbert sug- 
gested. The Colonel had growled about it testily, as 
usual, but, as usual, also, he made sure that it was done 
thoroughly. And in spite of his periodical outbreaks 
against Gilbert and himself for trying to help Sam Hardy, 
Colonel Mead was as keenly interested in the struggle for 
the proxies as even John Gilbert himself, and more confi- 
dent of success. 

“I declar,” said the Colonel, a grim smile lighting his 
grizzled face, one night when Gilbert was with him, “I 
wouldn’t know ye to what ye wuz a year ago. Then ye 
wuz jest sloppin’ around in the slough o’ despond, an’ not 
carin’ much whether ye got out er not; an’ now look at ye! 
Ye got blood in yer eyes, an’ ye walk on yer heels an’ 
generally look ez ef life wuz an eternal picnic, with lobster 
salad an’ ice cream fer every meal.” 

“ I wonder what’s got into Billy McNish,” said Gilbert 
musingly. 

Billy was not a favorite with the Colonel. The veteran 
pulled frowningly at his pipe. 

“Women are cur’us critters,” he remarked with seem- 
ing irrelevance. “ One reason why men like ’em, I reckon, 
is because they’re irritatin’ kind o’ puzzles, like ‘ Pigs in the 


160 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Clover.’ Ye corral one part o’ ther characters and think 
ye’ve got it hobbled so it can’t git away. Then ye start 
to drive in another, an’, ’fore ye know it, out jumps the 
first one an’ ye’ve got to start all over again. An’ ef ye 
ever do git ’em all corraled at once, why ye lose all int’rest 
in the game. They’s only one thing sure about ’em, an’ 
that is thet ye can’t be sure o’ anything about ’em. I’ve 
alluz figgered thet a woman’s mind ain’t gray matter. 
It’s a bunch o’ rainbows with colors that run. They’re 
made to think crisscross. An’ so’s Billy,” added the 
Colonel reflectively, coming suddenly back to the subject 
of conversation. “ Billy, he’s half a 1 Pigs in Clover ’ game 
hisself. Don’t ye worry about him. Why, ye never kin 
tell, fer five conseq-u-tive minutes, whar Billy stands on 
anything, ner why he’s thar, ner how he got thar, ner when 
he’s goin’ to vamoose to somewhars else.” 

Womenkind were the Colonel’s aversion and diversion. 
He never was more unhappy than when he was in a com- 
pany of women, and he never was happier than when he 
was discoursing wisely and from a distance upon their 
failings. But his remarks about Billy were unsatisfac- 
tory to Gilbert, and the conversation turned abruptly to 
Sam Hardy and to the shops. 

“ We’ve got to make 'the old man’ understand, some- 
how,” said Gilbert. “Have you ever thought that he 
might go so far as to join up with Hubbard, for a consid- 
eration, of course?” 

“Ez to makin’ him understand,” replied the Colonel, 
“ye might jest ez well try to make a steer thet’s bein’ 
branded understand Christianity. But he won’t tie up 
with them. It’s a three-cornered fight, with us standin’ 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


161 


ready to act ez his reinforcements, ef he says the right 
word.” 

“Of course, Colonel, we stick to Hardy to the finish, 
whether he says the right word or not.” 

The Colonel smiled quizzically. 

“ It’s funny, ain’t it?” he remarked, blowing a big cloud 
of smoke toward the ceiling. “Ef ye knock a man down 
he’ll love ye like a brother, but ef ye do him an almighty 
good turn he’ll alluz be waitin’ jest around the corner 
with a knife up his sleeve.” 

“By the way,” asked Gilbert, “have you got Tubb’s 
proxy yet?” 

Mr. Tubb had a considerable holding in Hardy stock. 

“Says he’s goin’ to let me know next week.” 

As the days went by and proxies came in to the Colonel 
and Mr. McNish, the excitement of the two men grew in 
ways to match their temperaments. The Colonel, with 
buoyant confidence, was always counting the total number 
of shares of stock for which they held proxies, and cau- 
tious Mr. McNish was always adding up the larger number 
that someone else controlled. 

They had, as a matter of fact, great reason for encour- 
agement, for their early start had helped them even more 
than Gilbert had hoped. By the first of August they had, 
including the support quietly gained from Hampstead 
men, more than a quarter of the voting power in their 
hands. The Colonel sent out a second batch of letters, 
and Mr. McNish wagged his head doubtfully about the 
remaining shares necessary for control. He knew that 
they would come in more slowly, if at all. Gilbert’s 
younger eye, however, noticed one day that from groups 


162 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


of stockholders in Albany, Pittsfield and Springfield, 
where the elder Mr. Hardy had sold, through friends, con- 
siderable quantities of stock in the early, growing years of 
the concern, only three or four proxies had arrived. He 
urged the Colonel to spend a week visiting the three cities 
and personally seeing these men, but Colonel Mead had 
his heart set on a month at the Sound shore, and “ pooh- 
poohed” the idea. Mr. McNish was too busy to give up 
the time. So the Colonel went away for his vacation, 
leaving Gilbert to watch the mails closely for returns from 
the three cities and to grow more certain, as the weeks 
passed, that his intuition was correct. 

Strangely enough Gilbert had come to depend upon 
Joe Heffler. Every night when the whistle blew, the 
gray-haired young fellow, with an anxious, almost pleading 
face, came to him. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” was the mor 
riotonous question. 

Gilbert found that Heffler seemed disappointed when 
he shook his head and said that there was “nothing at 
all.” And he soon began finding things for Heffler to do, 
little things which were done eagerly and thoroughly. 
Sometimes Heffler spent entire evenings at the shops, 
helping Gilbert with anything he had in hand, and always 
he asked for more to do, seemingly unsatisfied unless 
every leisure moment was spent in Gilbert’s service. 
But he retained, his silence and his sensitive aloofness. 

“Joe,” said Gilbert one night, in response to the usual 
question, “I’m going to ask you to do a mighty delicate 
thing, or perhaps a mighty indelicate thing. You do it 
or not, as you like.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 163 


“Yes, sir.” Heffler’s gaze was directed at Gilbert’s 
chin. He seldom more than flashed for a second a 
straight-in-the-eye glance. It was one of the marks that 
the prison shame had left upon him. 

“ You know Miss Gerty Smith.” 

Heffler started suddenly, and looked away as he nodded. 

“Well, frankly, I don’t trust her. I think Mr. Brett 
has got her wound about his little finger. I believe she’s 
telling him everything about us that he can’t find out him- 
self. I’ve made a rule that none of the stenographers can 
come out into the shops, but she comes, with Mr. Hardy’s 
permission, when I’m not around, and she watches the 
work and talks with the men. Now I’d like you to keep 
your eye on her and try to find out for sure what she’s up 
to. ’Tisn’t a nice job, but it’s necessary, and you can get 
Jimmy O’Rourke to help you at the other end. Jimmy’s 
put me wise to a lot of things already.” 

Heffler took off his cap and ran his fingers nervously 
through his thick gray hair. 

“What’d you do to her if you caught her?” he asked 
hesitatingly. 

“I don’t know.” Gilbert’s curiosity was aroused. 
Heffler had never questioned anything he had said be- 
fore. “I’d probably”— he went on slowly— “ probably 
give her a chance to tell what she knows and then — I 
don’t know. You can’t be rough on a woman, you 
know.” 

Heffler nodded and there was a long pause. 

“ I’ll do it,” Heffler said slowly, “ if there won’t anything 
wrong come to her. She’s a — a kind of a friend of mine.” 

Gilbert’s hand settled heavily on Joe Heffler’s shoulder. 


164 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ Don’t think any more about it, Joe,” he said. “I 
didn’t know.” 

Heffler was silent for a moment or two. 

“ I told Peter the other day,” he said at last, with an 
obvious eagerness to regain any confidence he might have 
lost, “to keep his ears open about all those men and to let 
you know anything he heard. He said he would.” 

“Good.” Gilbert’s tone was hearty. “You’re a 
mighty big help to me, Joe. Don’t know how I ever got 
along without you.” 

Heffler’s pale face flushed with pleasure, but that was 
his only answer. 

Two or three days later, while Gilbert was in the ma- 
chine room assembling one of the new machines, word 
came to him that there was someone waiting to see him 
in his office. 

“Have him see Billings, or Walters, or Moines. I’m 
too busy,” he told the boy. 

“Tried that. Won’t see anyone but you, sir.” 

“What’s his name?” said Jack, impatiently looking up 
from the work. 

“Lumpkin.” 

Gilbert called the room boss to take hold of the work, 
and hurried across to his office. There, indeed, was Mr. 
Lumpkin, clean shaven, well brushed, and resplendent in 
a new tie of bird’s-egg blue against a background of yellow 
shirt. 

“ Well, bless my soul,” he exclaimed in his big, hearty 
voice as he stared at Gilbert’s overalls and grimy face and 
hands. “I’d hardly know you, Mister Gilbert. Still, a 
little dirt don’t hurt anybody, as the Scripture says, or 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


165 


words to that effect. ‘Show me a man/ I often says to 
myself, ‘show me a man who’s afraid to soil his hands 
with the earth from which he was made and to which he 
shall return/ I says, ‘and I’ll show you a man without 
grit, grip er gumption ’ ” 

Gilbert interrupted him at this juncture. 

“What’s up, Lumpkin? I’m rushed to death this 
morning.” 

“Now, isn’t that curious?” Mr. Lumpkin wiped his 
brow with a red bandanna and beamed at the big man. 
“That’s just what I was saying to myself as I walked 
down the street. I said to myself, ‘Peter/ I says, 
‘ you’re going to see a business man/ I says, ‘ and you’ve 
got to be business-like. You’ve got to come straight to 
the point, Peter. You’ve got to introduce your facts in 
logical succession so that your meaning will be apparent 
to the most unintelligent listener.’ Beg your pardon, 
sir; of course not referring to you. And it was just at that 
moment that I caught sight of ‘ Old Glory/ floating on the 
summer air above these mighty mills of modern progress. 
That sight thrilled me to the core, sir, and I says to myself, 
‘ Peter/ says I, ‘ it’s a glorious thought, a thought winged 
with hope, yes sir, winged with hope for future genera- 
tions, that the humble toilers of our land day after day 
labor under the shadow of that fadeless, star-spangled 
banner.’” 

Gilbert sat down at his desk, a smile of surrender about 
his mouth, and offered Mr. Lumpkin a cigar. 

“And now what’s the news, Lumpkin?” he asked, while 
the night-lunch man bit off the end of the cigar. 

“I was just coming to that.” Mr. Lumpkin was busy 


166 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


with a match now. When the cigar was alight he leaned 
forward and, after looking cautiously about, went on in a 
loud whisper, “It may not be of the greatest importance, 
sir, but the Honorable Mr. Strutt’s gone out of town.” 

“I saw that in the paper last night,” returned Gilbert 
quickly. “Gone to Marblehead.” 

Mr. Lumpkin nodded, and, after another hasty glance 
about the room, he whispered: 

“You’re right, sir, always right. That’s precisely and 
completely what the papers said. But the Honorable 
Mr. Strutt’s son did me the honor last night of patron- 
izing the viands which I prepare for the public, to the ex- 
tent of a chicken sandwich and a bottle of ginger pop. 
And incidentally, quite by the way, you understand, he 
remarked to one of his friends that his father, the Honor- 
able Mr. Strutt, left last night for Albany, Pittsfield, 
Springfield and Marblehead.” 

Gilbert jumped to his feet. Before Mr. Lumpkin could 
continue, he was at the telephone calling one of his assist- 
ants. He must go out of town immediately, Mr. Lump- 
kin heard him say, for two or three days. Then followed 
a number of rapid orders for the work to be done while he 
was away. Hanging up the receiver, he rang for a mes- 
senger. Then he sat down again and wrote an even half 
dozen telegrams, finishing them just as the boy arrived. 
Then he turned to the lunch-cart man. 

“Excuse me, Lumpkin. This is important. Great 
hurry. Bully good of you.” 

Mr. Lumpkin rose; his chest with the bird’s-egg blue tie 
puffed forth with pride and joy. 

“That, sir,” he said, “warms the cockles of my heart. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 167 


It was such a trifle, you see, that I wasn't going to bother 
you at first, and then I says to myself, ‘Peter/ I says, 
‘ Joe said anything about those four men and the " 

“Thanks, thanks," broke in Gilbert impatiently, as he 
hurried Peter out. “I'll see you when I come back." 

Gilbert took the noon train for Pittsfield. He had 
wired to all the stockholders in Albany as well as to the 
Colonel. The Albany people would keep Mr. Strutt busy 
all day, and the telegrams would at least make them slower 
to decide. The longer they delayed the lawyer in Albany 
the better start Gilbert would have in Pittsfield and 
Springfield. It was the Honorable Mr. Strutt's first open 
activity, but Gilbert had been watching him, convinced 
that sooner or later the clever, pompous little lawyer 
would take a hand, and no uncertain hand, in the struggle. 
He was the legal representative of all the Hubbard inter- 
ests. His appearance had alone been needed to assure 
Gilbert and the Colonel that, behind the stock buying and 
the snap meeting of directors, was the hidden quiet direc- 
tion of Alonzo Hubbard and the hoard of Hubbard dollars. 
Gilbert wondered, as he sat in the train, whether any more 
stock was changing hands. Hardy stock was cheap, but 
it seemed to him, as he tried to put himself in the oppo- 
sition’s place, that with control gained at the September 
meeting they could make it cheaper. That was a bridge, 
at any rate, to which, as far as he had heard, he had not 
come. Down in his heart, however, he felt that, if Hub- 
bard started seriously to buy a majority of the stock, it 
would make a bridge that neither he nor any of those 
associated with him could cross. 

There were only three stockholders in Pittsfield, and, 


168 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


late that night, Gilbert boarded a train for Springfield 
with two proxies in his pocket. The third man was out 
of town and Gilbert had no time to wait for him. Strutt 
would be there in the morning. Incidentally Jack had 
learned a new phase of the Hubbard campaign. He had 
in his pocket a typewritten, confidential circular. The 
statements of this circular, accompanied by figures, and 
figures which he knew to be comparatively accurate, 
were strong enough to convince almost any outside stock- 
holder that Hardy & Son was on the verge of ruin. The 
man who had given it to Gilbert had said frankly that he 
had lost all hope of his stock ever again having any value. 
Gilbert was already framing in his mind an answering 
statement, which he determined should go to all the 
stockholders as quickly after his return to Hampstead as 
press could print it. But he scarcely hoped that it would 
counteract the first effect of the other circular. He felt 
his own ignorance and lack of skill against so versatile 
and perfectly trained an opposition. And he went to bed 
that night, tired and discouraged. 

There were seven men to see in Springfield, and one held 
a larger amount of stock than the other six. When, after 
waiting an hour in an outer office, Gilbert finally met this 
man, it was only to learn that the proxy had been signed 
and sent to Mr. Brett that very morning. The man was 
positive that it had been sent, but he gave Gilbert per- 
mission to search the general mail-bag, on the chance that 
the letter might still be in the office. And, after sorting 
and re-sorting hundreds of letters, Jack, with a thrill of 
triumph, brought forth a blue envelope with the familiar 
address. A new proxy was made out, and Gilbert, heed- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


169 


less of luncheon, went out to find the remaining six. He 
made another discovery that afternoon. One proxy had 
been sent to “the president.” Evidently Mr. Hardy was 
fighting alone. Gilbert pitied the obstinate “old man,” 
as he thought of the lonely struggle. 

When he reached the Springfield station, nearly a half 
hour before his train to Hampstead was due, he had 
three new proxies in his pocket. The other two, he knew 
now, had already gone to the other side. The drizzling 
rain, through which he had been plodding all day, still fell 
from the lead-colored twilight sky. The air in the waiting- 
room was close and hot, and he strolled up and down on 
the covered platform. Weary as he was from unaccus- 
tomed travel and irregular hours, there was real exhilara- 
tion in his heart and in his smiling eyes and even in his 
long jerky steps as he tramped up and down. An east- 
bound train rattled in and unloaded groups of passengers, 
but he scarcely noticed it. Reaching the end of the plat- 
form, he wheeled to continue his monotonous walk, when 
he found himself suddenly face to face with the Honorable 
Mr. Strutt, hurrying, bag in hand, toward the street exit. 
For a moment the two stared at each other with uncon- 
cealed surprise. Then Gilbert smiled and nodded gravely 
and started to pass the ex-Congressman. Mr. Strutt put 
down his bag and turned. 

“Gilbert,” he called. 

Jack faced him and waited quietly. 

“Nasty day,” volunteered Mr. Strutt, bowing pleas- 
antly and rubbing his hands together — “ washing his hands 
with invisible soap and water,” as Billy described it. 

Gilbert assented. Mr. Strutt drew a cigar case from 


170 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


his pocket and, opening it, offered it to Gilbert, who com- 
pleted the dumb show by displaying the half-smoked 
cigar in his hand. 

“Up here on business?” queried Mr. Strutt in his most 
suave and genial manner. Gilbert’s drawling answer was 
concise : 

“ I came to get exactly what you’re after, and I’ve got 
it. Did my telegrams block you at Albany?” 

Mr. Strutt smiled deprecatingly at his frankness. 

“Not entirely, but I’ll admit they hurt me. In fact, 
I’ll admit that you’ve beaten me all along the line.” Mr. 
Strutt’s tone suggested that he was conferring a great 
favor on his young friend by the admission. 

“That’s good hearing,” Gilbert responded heartily. 

“Gilbert,” continued Mr. Strutt, after a short pause 
during which the lawyer shifted his weight from one foot 
to the other, giving his small body a swinging pendulum 
movement, “ I’m delighted to have found you here. I’ve 
wanted to talk to you. I should like to say — if I can say 
it without being misunderstood — that I have conceived 
an admiration for you. You may not realize it — young 
men of ability seldom do, — but you have been attracting 
attention.” 

Mr. Strutt ceased his swinging and watched the big, 
irregular face. He scowled slightly when Gilbert did not 
take advantage of the pause to thank him for his good 
opinion. Any gentleman or any man of tact could not 
have done less, it seemed to the punctilious lawyer. 

“You have even interested so keen a judge of character 
as Mr. Alonzo Hubbard,” went on Mr. Strutt. “Quite 
confidentially, of course, he remarked to me the other 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


171 


day that he needed a man like you at exactly double the 
salary you are receiving at present. He even mentioned 
your name. He wants a man to correlate and manage 
all his mills. It's a big job, but you can have it by a 
word.” 

“Double the salary.” The idea dazed Gilbert for a 
moment. With that he could pay off all the remaining 
debts in a year and a half. He could make everything 
easier for his mother. Mr. Strutt saw his momentary 
advantage. 

“ I think something might be arranged also,” he added 
smoothly, “ about some stock, and perhaps an official posi- 
tion of some sort — say, assistant secretary or a director- 
ship. You can see that Mr. Hubbard fully realizes your 
value and is ready to pay for it. He seems to have taken 
a great liking to you.” 

Double the salary; an infinitely surer position; a larger, 
more important, work to do! Each of these attracted 
John Gilbert. He owed no loyalty to Sam Hardy now. 
The Colonel, if he were there, would undoubtedly tell him 
to take the offer. He wavered and Mr. Strutt, watching 
silently the signs of the inward struggle, smiled and rubbed 
his hands together softly and said to himself that a young 
man can almost always be trapped by an appeal to his 
ambition. At last Gilbert, with a long breath that was 
almost a sigh, looked squarely down into Mr. Strutt’s eyes. 

“I don’t care to consider your suggestion,” he said 
shortly, and started to turn away. Mr. Strutt’s open 
surprise and disappointment made him forget his crafti- 
ness and his carefully chosen words. 

“Look here, Gilbert,” he said hurriedly. “It’s a cer- 


172 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


tainty for an uncertainty. You’re fighting us now. For 
the life of me I can’t see why. Hardy’s against us both. 
That means you can’t get control without us.” A sharp 
exclamation from Gilbert checked him for a moment. “ I 
supposed you knew that. I’m talking frankly. I don’t 
want to see you make the mistake of your life. And I’ll 
tell you another thing. If we don’t control that meeting 
we’ll win afterwards.” 

Gilbert understood it all suddenly. He was a conceited 
fool not to have seen it in the beginning, he said to him- 
self. They didn’t want him. They merely wanted to 
put him out of their way. And by that, they showed 
openly that he was in their way, that they were feel- 
ing his opposition. 

“Go ahead and win,” he said slowly, “if you can.” 

“That means that you ” 

“I’m going to do all I can to stop you.” 

Mr. Strutt picked up his bag. 

“I’ll hold the offer open for a week,” he remarked con- 
ciliatingly. 

“ You needn’t. I don’t want it.” 

Mr. Strutt stared after him as he walked slowly away, 
and the face of the Honorable ex-Congressman dropped 
its genial mask. The look of it for that second promised 
no good to the broad-shouldered young man strolling un- 
concernedly down the platform. Mr. Strutt was accus- 
tomed to having his way. He was decidedly unused to 
being treated cavalierly by a young upstart whom cir- 
cumstances had forced him to approach. And Mr. 
Strutt’s enmity was not a thing to be scorned. 

As the train hurried down along the river bank Gilbert 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


173 


scoffed at himself for his first hesitation. He realized, 
however, that his own weakness, curiously enough, had 
done him a service. He had learned that the Hubbard 
forces controlled enough stock already to win if they, by 
any chance, obtained Sam Hardy’s help. He knew, also, 
that it was to be a fight to the finish with them. He knew 
how hopelessly the odds were against him in that fight. 
He felt something of that relentless hand that was behind 
it all, always hidden but always directing, the hand of 
that silent Mr. Hubbard, whom few knew and whom 
everyone respected. Then, as he stared into the growing 
darkness beyond the dirty car windows, he saw the hun- 
dreds of men toiling through the rattle and smoke and 
grime of the Hardy mills, and admitted to himself shame- 
facedly that he and another man had been bartering over 
their future and Sam Hardy’s, the grim, intolerant “old 
man” whom he was trying to save. Then the picture 
vanished before a tall, slender, girlish figure. And he 
loathed himself for his indecision and his selfishness, and 
told her so humbly a dozen times as he lay back wearily 
on the cushioned seat. 

Gilbert thought that his mother knew almost nothing 
of the real struggle at the shops. He was certain that he 
had never told her. He did not realize that, with a 
woman’s strategy, she had drawn from him, little by little, 
many fragments of information which she had later pieced 
together carefully until she understood the meaning of 
each one and of the whole. Sometimes he had seen a look of 
shrewd satisfaction about her mouth, and he had suddenly 
remembered that he had been led into an admission he had 
not intended to make. But these were little things, and 


174 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


he had been amused at her curiosity. Her first question, 
therefore, when he reached home that night, made him 
regard her with frank amazement. It was about the 
proxies. 

“How do you know anything about that?” he asked 
almost sharply. His mother laughed. 

“You told me near a month ago, but you did not know 
it. You’ll find out in time, laddie, that it’s better to tell 
a Scotch woman everything than to let her guess. She’ll 
know less in the end.” 

“There isn’t anything for you to worry about.” 

“ Worry? ” Mrs. Gilbert jerked her head back proudly. 
“And why should I worry, with you straight and strong 
like that? No, no. Have your fling. It’s a good one, 
and a right one, and like you. I pray the good Lord 
every night that I mayn’t be too proud of you.” 

“Don’t talk like that, mother.” 

“I’ll talk as I please.” 

They were both laughing when the Colonel arrived, 
growling about his interrupted vacation but eager to hear 
the news. And Mrs. Gilbert left the two men to talk 
business. It was after midnight when the Colonel left. 

“Did you land Tubb?” asked Gilbert at the door. 

“Saw him to-day. He’s backin’ and fillin’ a hull lot. 
Reckon he smells oats in the other direction. Says he’ll 
tell me certain, Saturday. He’s one o’ those men thet 
wants ye to like him more’n most anybody else, but is 
alluz afraid thet the other feller’ll dislike him if ye do. 
He shakes hands an’ tells stories an’ agrees with ye till ye 
want to fight. But he ain’t got a good healthy ‘ yes ’ er 
‘no’ in his constitution.” 


CHAPTER XI 


AN UNEXPECTED CONFERENCE 

U NCERTAINTY and delay worried Billy McNish. 

When he could act on impulse he was more often 
right than wrong. Given an unexpected case at 
the last moment, and he would stir the most indifferent 
judge and jury with brilliant pleading. Called upon for 
impromptu remarks at a dinner, he would make the hap- 
piest, wittiest speech of the evening. He might have been 
a hero in any sudden moment of danger, if there were peo- 
ple nearby to watch the deed. He might have led any 
spectacular, forlorn hope the fates flung in his way. But 
waiting weakened his decision. He brooded and grew 
suspicious and changed his mind a dozen times in an hour. 
An intricate, long-drawn-out case at law would be begun 
with optimistic enthusiasm, only to be ended in pessi- 
mistic, half-hearted endeavor. A carefully prepared 
speech usually made his days and nights immediately 
preceding the event a torment of foreboding misery. He 
would be utterly dissatisfied with it long before it was 
delivered. And if a thing had to be reasoned out, he in- 
variably looked at it from so many different angles that 
the longer he thought about it the more confused he 
became. 

When he had asked Clare Hardy to marry him, nearly a 
year before, he had almost taken her by storm. But since 
175 


176 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


he had found that his love-making must become a long, 
arduous campaign he had lost much of his dash, much of 
his insistence, much of his confidence. Then he had 
thought only of his love for her. Now he planned speeches 
that he never made to her, and stratagems that he never 
used. He swore roundly that he would not see her for a 
fortnight. He would pique her curiosity. And then, 
somehow, he forgot about it and called three times a week 
as usual, and saw her on all the intermediate days. He 
told himself that she was a flirt and then dangled, tem- 
porarily content, at the end of her string. And now, 
after a year, she seemed as desirable and as far away from 
him as ever. 

His new political ambitions had a similar history. He 
had opened the subject to Mr. Moriarty with perfect as- 
surance that the little Irishman would share his enthu- 
siasm. He had not for a moment dreamed that Moriarty 
would be blind to this opportunity of overcoming the 
usually small Republican majority. Billy knew his own 
popularity, and he threw himself into his preliminary 
personal canvass eagerly. At night he often lay for hours, 
picturing to himself the night of the caucus, the crowded 
room, the absurd dignity of the chairman, the good- 
humored shouts of the mass, and then his unanimous 
nomination and the burst of applause as he took the 
stage. And he saw himself, handsome, graceful, holding 
the audience in the spell of his oratory, and heard his 
own thrilling words, and applauded as he fell off to sleep. 
At other times it was the night of his election, and the 
entire town came to serenade him, and again he spoke, 
this time a simple, modest speech of gratitude and with a 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 177 


deep sense of his high responsibilities; and the men shook 
hands with him afterwards and called him the next gov- 
ernor. But now these visions had become old and dim, 
and he lay awake thinking and doubting, for over them 
hung the awkward shadow of John Gilbert, his friend. 

When he had first heard that Gilbert was a candidate he 
had impulsively disbelieved it, but the more he thought 
about it and brooded over it the more doubtful and sus- 
picious he became. Similarly when Mr. Hardy told him 
of Gilbert’s disloyalty at the shops, he shook his head 
vigorously and declared that it was incredible. He knew 
Sam Hardy’s temper. He knew that Sam Hardy was 
unwell, that he was in just the condition to magnify a 
mole hill into a mountain. That very night he had dined 
at the Hardys’, and “the old man,” nervously complain- 
ing of dizziness, had left the table in the middle of dinner, 
much to Mrs. Hardy’s openly expressed irritation. And 
yet, as the days and weeks followed, he moodily argued 
himself into Mr. Hardy’s point of view. Perhaps, after 
all, as “the old man” had said, “Jack was ambitious 
enough to do anything or anybody.” 

During the last two weeks of August Hampstead toiled 
on, gasping and sweating in the grip of the “dog days,” 
which hung invisible weights on hurrying feet, and made 
brains run slow and tempers fast. One stifling night, a 
week or ten days after Gilbert’s flying trip to Pittsfield 
and Springfield, Billy McNish sat smoking on the veranda 
steps of the big house. At dinner an impulse had come to 
him to see Jack and “have it out,” but unfortunately the 
combined restfulness of a good dinner and a good cigar 
made him delay, and delay made him hesitate. He 


178 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


would be showing his hand, he argued, if Gilbert was 
really working against him. He recalled that they had 
not seen each other in nearly a month. Impulse told him 
that Gilbert was very busy and that his own attitude, 
the last time they had met, had not been particularly in- 
viting. As he thought, however, he felt that Jack had 
purposely slighted him. It was scarcely up to him to 
make any overtures. 

The moon already threw a broad pathway of light be- 
fore him, when he rose dejectedly and walked around to 
Mr. Hardy’s front door. No, Miss Hardy had gone out, 
the maid said, and would not be back until late in the 
evening. Of course she was out. It was just his luck. 
Billy stood for a moment hesitatingly at the gate and 
then, still undecided, he walked on up the hill. Perhaps 
something would turn up. Perhaps Jack would come out 
and they might meet naturally. When in doubt Billy had 
a way of leaving things to chance. As he came to the 
little house which the Gilberts occupied, he saw that the 
door was open, and he stopped short as he recognized 
the huge figure lounging, his hands in his pockets, against 
the door jamb. Two other men stood in the shadow, be- 
yond the edge of the light thrown by the lamp within. 
Almost upon the moment that Billy stopped, he heard 
familiar explosive laughter; the big figure straightened, 
turned its back and went in, and the two men came down 
the path talking rapidly. Billy, not caring to meet them, 
passed the gate quickly, his face averted. Then he walked 
slowly as he heard the voice of Mr. Moriarty. 

“ ’Tis a sure thing Brett’ll run agin, and runnin’ anny- 
wan but Jawn Gilbert against him ’Id be like trottin’ 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 179 


Flanagan’s mule against Major Delmar wid a wind- 
shield.” 

“ Y’ain’t goin’ to run anybody else,” answered Colonel 
Mead, “so don’t disturb the mule.” 

They turned down the street, and Billy started impetu- 
ously after them. He stopped by the gate. There was 
nothing that he could say to them. He looked down over 
the terraced roofs of the houses below him. The town 
lay resting from its day’s work, glorified in the mellow 
radiance of the moon. A wave of self-pity swept over 
him. He was not to be even the candidate for mayor. 
What a failure he was, after all! He wondered what 
Clare Hardy would think. No woman could care for a 
failure, he told himself bitterly. Success was what 
counted, never mind what it cost. A new plan came to 
him. He would be chivalrous. He would withdraw 
without a word of complaint. He would show her the 
difference between an unselfish chap, who was willing to 
sacrifice for his friend, and the friend, who thought only 
of personal, selfish reward. But, as he walked down the 
street, his old ambition returned, and he declared to him- 
self melodramatically that he would fight to the last 
ditch, if he had only one vote at the caucus, and that vote 
his own. He knew as he said it that he did not mean it. 
Poor Billy! He could not have told anyone what he 
really meant that night. He had never in his life sunk 
so deep into the mire of complete despair. 

Gilbert had asked Mr. Moriarty and the Colonel to 
dinner that night. The shops were rounding themselves 
into shape. The new rooms were almost completed and 
a number of the new machines were already installed. 


180 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


He had accomplished as much as he had expected in the 
time. The work was more than half done, and the re- 
mainder would come along more easily. The first great 
rush was over. Hardy & Son was ready to meet the com- 
petition of the Fall trade. They had new improvements 
on the lines of goods which the Westbury concern made, 
and they were able now to manufacture them more 
cheaply, he felt certain, than their rivals. He was giving 
more of his time, therefore, to the fight for the stock. 
The meeting and the crisis were only a fortnight away. 
Mr. Moriarty still held some Hardy stock, he under- 
stood, — stock that dated back to Moriarty’s period of ser- 
vice as superintendent of the growing mills. And that 
was the reason that the little Irishman and the Colonel 
dined with the Gilberts that night. 

It was not until the three men were sitting in the little 
library after dinner, with cigars and the Colonel's pipe 
alight, that Gilbert came to the point. 

“ Moriarty,” he said bluntly, “we want the vote of 
your Hardy stock at the annual meeting. You don’t 
like Sam Hardy and I can’t blame you, but we want to 
vote your stock for him — for the good of the shops.” 

Mr. Moriarty nodded reflectively, and deflected his cigar 
from its acute angle, at which the lighted end had been 
threateningly close to his left eye. 

“ ’Twas a dirrty trick he done.” Then the thin, smooth- 
shaven lips wrinkled in a smile. “But ’tis the chip on 
his shoulder that makes me mad. ’Tis always there and 
I always want to knock it off.” 

“Oh, I’ll admit that Hardy looks at life as a long bridge 
over a chasm. He thinks there’s room for only one on 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 181 


that bridge, and to get across he’s got to knock everybody 
else off. But that isn’t the point. We want to vote your 
stock for the good of your stock and of everybody’s else 
stock.” 

Mr. Moriarty rubbed his chin thoughtfully during a long 
pause. Moriarty had been accused of many things but 
never, even by his bitterest opponents, of uttering an ill- 
considered word. 

“There seems to be somethin’ doin’ wid Hardy stock,” 
he remarked with an air of solemn conviction. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, Oi said Oi’d not talk about it and Oi’ll not,” 
Moriarty hesitated impressively, “but Oi’ll tell ye confi- 
dentially, because y’are who y’are, that Oi sold my stock 
a week ago to His Honor the Mayor. ’Twas not much I 
got, but ’twas more than Oi expected.” 

“Sold it?” ejaculated the Colonel and Gilbert in unison. 

“ If that’s what ye had me up here for,” went on Mr. 
Moriarty with deliberate emphasis, “ye lose. ’Tis good 
money against expectations, and expectations don’t buy 
potatoes or coal. But ye needn’t worry about that. Ye 
needn’t worry at all.” Mr. Moriarty leaned forward and 
lowered his voice with the awe he felt for his own news. 
“For ye’re goin’ to be His Honor the Mayor yerself in 
October. And that,” he added, with an almost defiant 
triumph, “is what Oi had mesilf up here for.” 

Gilbert laughed in spite of himself. 

“Don’t scare me to death, Moriarty. What’s the 
joke?” 

“’Tis no joke.” The Irishman’s tone was resentful. 

“ ’Tain’t possible,” cried the Colonel, who in his excite- 


182 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


ment had risen and stood facing Mr. Moriarty, “thet the 
folks o’ this town actooly want a man with red blood in 
him an’ muscles in his brains, fer mayor.” 

“They want him all right,” answered Moriarty, jerking 
his thumb toward Gilbert, “but they don’t know it and 
Oi do.” He thumped his breast vigorously with his sec- 
ond finger. 

“But kin ye round ’em up to nominate him?” 

“Oi hov the caucus in here.” The Irishman stuck his 
stubby forefinger in his vest pocket. 

“What hev ye got in th’other pocket?” the Colonel 
asked without a smile. “Ef it’s the election we’ll con- 
sider the proposition. I alluz thought caucuses an’ 
elections was almighty triflin’ things, but I didn’t expect 
to find ’em travelin’ round in the pockets of a red-headed, 
pug-nosed Irishman like you, Moriarty.” 

Gilbert broke in before Moriarty could retort. 

“You seem to have me nominated and elected between 
you,” he drawled. “This whole thing’s nonsense. First, 
because I haven’t time; second, because Billy McNish is a 
better man for it than I am and Billy wants it. I don’t 
know any more about politics than the Colonel does. 
And the Colonel’s clean forgotten that he’s usually a Re- 
publican and we’re Democrats.” 

“Reckon I kin hold in my patriotic principles till after 
you’re elected,” muttered the Colonel. 

With that, Mr. Moriarty began to talk. It was not 
easy, flowing, high-sounding talk. Nobody ever heard 
Moriarty make a speech. He said that he didn’t know 
how, and that he’d never found need of it in his business. 
No, it was jerky short-arm talk, that gradually grew stag- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 183 


gering in its accumulation of terse arguments. He had 
past elections at his tongue’s end. He had the results of 
a quiet, indefinite canvass he had made, written out for 
them to read. He had hypothetical figures for the vote 
of every ward, and proved circumstantially that they 
would become facts on election day. He had the rest of 
the ticket up for inspection down to the smallest council- 
man. 

“Ye’re young,” he added, beating each point home 
with his fist on his knee. “That’s what they want these 
days. Ye’re honest. Iverywan knows that. Ye’re a 
good union man — the fact’ry men loike that; and a good 
baseball player — and that don’t hurt ye a bit.” Gilbert 
laughed outright at this, but the Irishman shook his finger 
at him warningly. “That’s all right. There’s manny a 
man been ilicted to higher office for less than pitchin’ a 
good game o’ ball. Nobody’s got it in for ye. The 
oulder men that remimber the Doctor — God rest his soul 
— will vote for ye, Ray publicans and Dimmycrats. There 
now. ’Tis the duty av anny man to run if he’s wanted. 
And ye’re wanted.” 

Politics were primitively patriotic to Moriarty. He 
worked hard for the good of his ticket. He bossed his 
caucuses with an iron hand, partly because the people 
trusted him and partly because there was no one else 
willing to give up so much time to it. And Moriarty ’s 
Hibernian soul loved the power of it. That was his only 
reward. He seldom won anything except an extra 
councilman this year or an extra alderman next. The 
Republicans had controlled the town for years. He hon- 
estly believed that he could elect John Gilbert mayor. 


184 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


But Gilbert did not argue with him, and Gilbert seemed 
to hang tightly to his first excuses: lack of time and the 
candidacy of Alderman McNish. Mr. Moriarty, there- 
fore, shrewdly dropped the discussion and started for 
home. At the door he stopped for a last word: 

“ Think it over, Jack,” he said. “ Think it over, me 
boy. Oi won’t ask ye for a decision to-night. ’Tis too 
sudden, but ’tis worth considerin’. The honor av it is 
somethin’ and the opporchunity is somethin’. Oi think 
ye’ll go far — farther perhaps than Oi think.” 

The Colonel interrupted him, laying his hand on Mori- 
arty’s shoulder. 

“ His hair may look like a prairie sunset,” he said, wink- 
ing at Gilbert, “ an’ his nose mayn’t be much to get a hold 
of, but he ain’t tongue-tied. Pardner,” he went on, turn- 
ing to the gaping little Irishman, “I thought I’d heard 
folks ’at could shoot off their mouth, but you’re the only 
real, genuwine, fourteen-carat, honest an’ no imitation, 
A1 word slinger I ever met.” 

Gilbert laughed heartily, and they said good-night. 

For many minutes after they had gone he stood alone 
in the front hallway, leaning against the balustrade. He 
could be nominated for mayor, and Moriarty believed that 
he could be elected. Mayor of Hampstead! The whole 
thing seemed absurd. He, John Gilbert, who only six 
months before had been pushed into the Common Council 
to fill a vacancy. Moriarty had been working over this 
for weeks, perhaps months, and he had heard no word of 
it. He seemed to remember something that had been 
said one day at the shop. He had thought it a joke, of 
course. Moriarty was disappointed. Moriarty had called 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 185 


it a duty. Perhaps it was a duty. Could he do it? 
Could he swing his work at Hardy & Son’s and do the 
mayor’s work at the same time? Perhaps. No, he was 
not clever enough to handle Council meetings or to make 
speeches. It was not his kind of work. But the cam- 
paign part of it appealed to him. He had some ideas 
about that campaign, ideas of which he had said nothing 
to anybody, chaotic, unformed ideas, but ideas that inter- 
ested him greatly because they made him angry whenever 
he thought of them. He had had no time to work them 
out, but he meant to, and to finish, before election day. 
He shook his head wearily. Before election day! There 
was so much to do between now and election day. 

Then there was Billy, — he went on with his thinking. 
Billy had been mightily unfair to him, but down under- 
neath Billy was all right and a good friend. Billy wanted 
to be nominated. Gilbert went back to that Decoration 
Day meeting at Billy’s office. “I believe I promised in a 
sort of way to help him,” he said to himself as he prodded 
his memory. But Moriarty evidently thought Billy could 
not be elected. 

Then he thought of Clare Hardy. He had not seen her 
since the night of the Fourth of July. He had tried only 
the once, when she had made it obvious to him that she 
did not care to see him. He had done his best to force 
her out of his mind. He had built what seemed to him 
an invulnerable armor against her out of his great task 
at the mills, out of the din of its busy rooms and the calls 
of his assistants, out of his fight, with the Colonel, for 
stock enough to hold the factories safe at the coming 
meeting. But still she came back to him, and the big, 


186 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


toiling man was heartsick for a glimpse of her. He knew 
he must wait, wait until she understood his side, wait 
until she knew that he had been square and straight 
through it all, and then — he must wait after that forever. 
There again entered Billy Me Nish. Billy loved her and 
she, it seemed, loved him. Gilbert called to his mother 
that he was going for a walk. He picked up his hat and 
went out into the silent, radiant night. 

At the gate he looked down over the scene which had 
attracted Billy only a few minutes before. He saw at the 
right the high, grimy smokestack of Hardy & Son stand- 
ing forth defiantly in the weird moonlight. At the left 
were the lower, more modern and more compact chimneys 
of the Hubbard mills. They seemed to him like sentinels 
of the opposing forces which lay bivouacked for the night 
in the city below. He walked slowly down the street, 
past the old house, and the Hardys’ and the Colonel’s. 
People passed him and spoke to him, but he answered 
mechanically, scarcely heeding. Directly before him at 
the corner of a side street, an old elm tree threw its gaunt 
shadow across the path. A gnarled branch far above 
looked, in its shadow, like a roughly carved hand pointing 
up the short street. It caught his interest and he looked 
up. The street was familiar to him, chiefly because the 
third house at the left was the Methodist parsonage. 
Gilbert sometimes stopped there to play with the min- 
ister’s small son, — an imaginative youngster who liked 
more attention than his father and mother were able to 
give him, — or to puzzle himself with the contrasts between 
Mrs. Brice’s forced gayety and the preacher’s forced 
solemnity. Impulsively he turned into the street now. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 187 


He would follow the shadowy signboard. Perhaps at 
least it would lead him away from himself. 

The maid at the parsonage liked Gilbert, and, perhaps 
because she liked him and perhaps because she was very 
stupid, she merely told him that Master Harry was in the 
sitting-room, and then left him to his own devices. Gil- 
bert walked to the sitting-room door, and opened it sud- 
denly to surprise the boy. But he stopped in the doorway, 
still fumbling over the knob awkwardly, his face redden- 
ing fiercely. It was he, not the boy, who was surprised. 

The gas was not lit, but the light from the great lamp 
on the table spread its yellow circle over a collection of 
blocks, grouped in squares and rectangles, and badly 
maimed tin soldiers and dolls and various odds and ends 
of a small boy’s playthings. At the edge of this motley 
array sat young Harry, listening with a child’s absorbed 
interest to Clare Hardy, who lay in utter abandon upon 
the floor beside him. Miss Hardy looked up as the door 
opened, and sat straight with a rapid movement that 
disarranged some of the carefully placed blocks. 

“Oh, Auntie Clare, you knocked the walls down,” cried 
the boy, rushing to the rescue and still too much en- 
grossed to notice the interruption. The Brices had fol- 
lowed the fashion, and had made Master Harry the nephew 
of all their friends. Then, instinctively feeling the silence, 
he turned and saw Gilbert. 

“Hello, Uncle Jack,” he called gravely, as he continued 
to rearrange the blocks. “We’re playin’ fact’ry.” 

“Mrs. Brice had to go out to-night,” Miss Hardy ex- 
plained, “and she let me come down to look after the 
boy. Won’t you come in?” 


188 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“If I may.” 

“Of course. Mr. Gilbert knows a great deal more 
about factories than I do, Harry. He can show us all 
about it.” 

“Do you, Uncle Jack?” asked the boy doubtfully. 

Gilbert stepped carefully over the “fact’ry” they had 
built, and sat down upon the floor beside them. 

“More than I sometimes wish I did,” he said. 

He turned and looked steadily at Miss Hardy. His 
face was still flushed with embarrassment. Then he 
stretched out his big hand toward her above the boy’s 
head. 

“ I’m mightily glad to see you,” he said frankly. “ I’ve 
been wanting to for a long time.” 

There was an appeal in his voice and in his eyes that 
could scarcely be refused. Miss Hardy gave him her 
hand quickly and nodded. 

“Tell Mr. Gilbert about the factory and the office, 
Harry.” 

“He isn’t Mr. Gilbert. He’s Uncle Jack,” the boy re- 
marked reprovingly. Then, with boyish pride, he explained 
the pile of blocks, his keen, interested little mind running 
so far ahead of his tongue that his speech slipped and 
stumbled in its haste to catch up. They were soon smil- 
ing confidentially behind his back at his half knowledge and 
his quaint phrases. Gilbert threw himself whole-heartedly 
into the child’s play, while Miss Hardy leaned back against 
a chair, and watched him and listened critically to his pa- 
tient answers to the boy’s reiterated questions. 

“An’ is there a fire in it?” They had reached the 
foundry. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 189 


“A very big fire.” 

“Hot enough to burn ’em?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“ Seven times seven? ” The boy’s religious training had 
taught him that this was the last extremity of heat. 

“Pretty nearly,” laughed Gilbert. “But this ought to 
be so, and that this way.” He deftly changed the position 
of some of the blocks and of the tin soldiers that served as 
workmen. Harry Brice looked up inquiringly at Miss 
Hardy. 

“Mr. Gilbert knows how to remodel other people’s 
factories.” Miss Hardy was half sorry she had said it 
when she saw the sudden soberness of Gilbert’s face. But 
she noticed that he went on with his changes. 

“You know all about it,” he said quietly. 

“1 know one side of it. He’s very angry.” 

“He has misunderstood.” 

“I thought so.” 

“Really?” His homely face lit up with a gleam of 
frank joy as he turned to her. 

“Well, I thought,” she said quickly, frightened at her 
own definiteness, “that you couldn’t be as bad as ” 

Harry had been staring up at them, uncomprehending 
and with growing restlessness. 

“Why do the men get all black?” he broke in impa- 
tiently. 

“ From the machines.” 

“ Well, I shan’t have any nasty machines in my fact’ry.” 

“How will it all end?” asked Miss Hardy. 

“Hard to tell. All right, I guess.” There was much 
more confidence in Gilbert’s words than he really felt. 


190 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“He isn’t quite himself.” Miss Hardy spoke hurriedly, 
as if she felt guilty at talking of her father. “ He’s dis- 
couraged and he isn’t well. He said to-night that Mr. 
Brett wants to see him to-morrow, and that he thought 
he’d sell out if he got a chance. I don’t believe he really 
will,” she added, startled by the fierce look of Gilbert’s 
face. 

“ You mustn’t let him,” he said almost roughly. “ Give 
up after all these years? Give up to a pack of sneak 
thieves? Give up with success just ahead of him? We’re 
working for him. You must know that. We’d be work- 
ing with him, if he’d let us. If he’ll just hang on we’ll 
re-elect him president, and, if he’ll help us, we’ll save the 
shop. He holds the balance of power for the meeting 
now.” 

Gilbert’s eyes were black with sudden anger, and his 
whole figure was tense with emotion. He explained 
rapidly the situation in regard to the stock, making it 
simple by homely illustrations. 

“I guess you’ve forgotten me,” remarked the boy 
plaintively. 

“I guess we have,” laughed Gilbert with sudden relax- 
ation. “What do you want to know now?” 

The boy looked from one to the other with a new in- 
terest. 

“That’s just the way Uncle Charles talks to Aunt 
Mary,” he said, reasoning rapidly, “when he gets mad 
at her. Now if you’re Uncle Jack and she’s Auntie 
Clare, why don’t you live in a big house by yourselves 
the way they do?” 

There was a terrifying pause for a long fraction of a 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 191 


minute. Then Miss Hardy jumped up, with her back 
turned toward Gilbert. 

“It’s half-past nine. What would your mother say, 
Harry? She'd never let me come again when she went 
away, and we'd never play factory again." 

Gilbert laughed in spite of himself as she stopped for 
breath. 

“And before I go, young man," he said, “I'll ‘up in 
the air' you three times — for punishment." He almost 
said “for reward." 

Before the boy could object he was seized and hurled 
vigorously toward the ceiling, to descend in Jack's strong 
arms. Three, four, five times the operation was re- 
peated, while Miss Hardy's cheeks cooled as she bent to 
pick up the toys. But there must be an ending of even 
“up in the airs," and, with young Harry clasping his leg 
and begging for more, Gilbert turned to say good-night to 
Miss Hardy. Their eyes met and there was real com- 
radeship in the glance. 

“ I’m depending on you," he said. 

“I'll do my best." 

“Then you believe in me?" 

“I — I think I do. I think I have all the time." 

“That's better than all the rest." 

She was very quiet as she undressed the boy and 
heard his prayers and tucked him in, so quiet that he 
had an opportunity to remember the unanswered ques- 
tion. As he lay in bed, decidedly awake, he asked it 
again. 

“Why?" he reiterated. 

Miss Hardy turned out the lights. 


192 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“You're a funny boy," she said. Then she leaned 
over him and, putting her arms about him, she half lifted 
him up and kissed him. “ You're a funny boy," she said 
again. 

“Now," he remarked with masculine severity, “you've 
got to tuck me in again." 


CHAPTER XII 


LATER IN THE EVENING 

M R. HARDY passed the street that led to the 
parsonage only a few moments after Gilbert 
turned into it that night. If Jack had con- 
tinued his way toward Main Street they probably would 
have met. The old man trudged up the hill, grunting 
gruffly to those who spoke to him, staring at the sidewalk, 
which sometimes seemed to rise up in billows beneath his 
feet. He passed unheeding through the beauty of the 
night, stiffening his will against a constant feeling of 
dizziness, conscious only of a numb, wracking ache at the 
back of his head and of a packet of papers in his coat 
pocket, which he covered carefully with his rigid right arm. 
He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the house and 
snapped his key in the lock. He was glad to be at home 
again. Mrs. Hardy, upstairs in her room, heard his step 
on the porch and, getting up, she quietly locked her door 
and switched off the electricity. Then she sat nervously 
listening to the stamp of his feet as he passed through the 
hall, and, when the door of his room slammed shut with a 
noise that echoed through the house, she shuddered and, 
turning on the light, continued with her book. 

In his room Mr. Hardy took the papers from his pocket 
and carefully laid them on the table. Then, although the 
white lace curtains bellied in from the breeze at an open 
window, he took off his coat. He felt suffocated and 
193 


194 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


oppressed. Sitting down at the table, he separated the 
precious papers carefully into two piles. He knew the 
contents of every one of them, but he unfolded each one 
in turn and read it from beginning to end. As he re- 
placed each paper he noted down some figures, using, 
after his usual custom, half of a canceled envelope. When 
he was done with them he added the figures carefully 
twice. Then he leaned back and stared vacantly at the 
window. He had known the result approximately before 
he took the papers from the safe, but it was hard for Sam 
Hardy to convince himself of defeat. That was what 
these thin piles seemed to mean to him now, defeat; 
utter, hopeless defeat. In one pile were his own stock 
certificates, which he handled carefully, almost tenderly, 
as if he thought they might crumble at his touch. In the 
other pile were proxies and letters in reply to his requests, 
sent out frantically a week or ten days after the snap 
directors’ meeting. His delay in sending them — which 
proved that Gilbert had been right in his judgment of 
“the old man” — had been one reason for the thinness of 
the pile, but a greater reason lay in Sam Hardy’s unpopu- 
larity. He had made few friends among his stockholders. 
Few of those who knew him could tolerate his up-and- 
down domineering way. Decreasing dividends as well 
had caused stockholders to lose faith in him. “ Hardy is 
a has-been,” many of them said. They even forgot that 
he was still a good salesman. But his old power, his old 
fighting grit, was not dead. As he sat, leaning back, his 
set face was still uncompromising and the sturdy figure 
did not droop. 

“It’s the last ditch,” he muttered, “the last ditch.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 195 


The sound of his own voice seemed to startle him. “I’m 
all in,” he went on, “all in. Nothing but a miracle can 
save me now. They’ve got me between ’em. If I fight 
one, the other wins. People I meet seem to know it. 
‘ That’s Sam Hardy,’ they seem to say. ‘ Big man once, 
but down and out.’” 

He rose and, going over to the tall pier-glass, he eyed 
himself closely. He gained confidence and wheeled defi- 
antly, as if to face an invisible visitor with whom he had 
been talking. 

“No,” he growled. “I won’t give it up. They’re my 
shops, I tell you. They’re part of me, bone of my bone 
and flesh of my flesh. They’re mine, every stick and 
stone of ’em.” 

He cursed roundly and tramped up and down the room, 
attempting to force his exhausted mind upon the problem 
which he had tried a hundred times to solve in the last 
few days. He had asked no one for advice about it. In- 
deed he had mentioned it only to Billy McNish, his law- 
yer, the director from Tareville and a few local stock- 
holders. He had always directed his fights alone, and 
now he stood, half crazed with the worry and the humilia- 
tion of it, facing this utter ruin alone. 

He stopped at the table and lit a cigar. Then he began 
to describe the situation to himself. His mind blurred 
badly and he talked on. The spoken words seemed to 
straighten out the tangle of too many thoughts. 

“ If Jack Gilbert gets control, he’ll put me out. That’s 
what he’s been working for from the start. And I made 
him; made him from a green hand to superintendent. 
Now he thinks he knows more about the shops than I do, 


196 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


and I made them as well as him. He’s changing ’em now 
so I hardly know ’em, and I can’t stop him. He went 
over me — over me, Sam Hardy, who ran the place before 
he was born. No man ever did it before. Guess I’m 
getting old. The men ain’t afraid of me as they were. 
They snickered, some of ’em, when I slipped in the yard 
yesterday.” 

He beat his fist with sudden anger upon the table. 

“There’ll be a way out of it yet,” he said. “I’ll make 
’em bow down and say their prayers to the machines yet.” 

He was silent for a minute or two, the former vacant 
stare in his eyes. Then he sat down and leaned forward, 
his chin on his hands, his elbows on the table. 

“Brett wants to talk, does he? Probably wants to 
smooth me down and find out something. Brett’s a 
sneak, but he’s got Hubbard back of him. Perhaps — per- 
haps he’s ready to force me out now. No, the meeting’s 
only a little more’n a week away. He’ll wait. But if 
he’d buy me out — put up the cash, — then I could get away 
and I’d have something to show for it. Nobody could 
laugh at me then.” For a moment he sat dejectedly. 
Then he shook himself and stretched out his hands to grip 
the two ends of the table before him. 

“What ’re you thinking of?” he whispered. “You 
never was a quitter, Sam Hardy, and you ain’t one now. 
There’ll be a way out yet. And the shops, I’d burn ’em 
before I’d let that crowd get ’em.” 

A thousand invisible wires seemed to be pulling him 
down, and he thought he could hear the steady beat of his 
aching head. He picked the half-smoked cigar from his 
mouth and flung it through the open window. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 197 


“It doesn’t taste good/’ he explained to himself. 
“ Nothing tastes good or smells good or feels good. Wish 
I knew how much stock Gilbert’s got, and Brett. Wish 
I’d sent out for proxies sooner. Might ’ve known they’d 
get ahead of me. Wish I knew what they’ll do when they 
get control. Perhaps Gilbert’s hand in glove with Brett 
all the time. No,” he muttered, “no, there’ll be a way 
out yet.” 

He sat in this position for some minutes, his tired brain 
refusing to work consecutively. It was probably his 
weariness, as well as his isolation and his friendlessness 
and his obstinate self-will, that kept him from under- 
standing the real situation. If he could have known, as 
he sat there, that Mr. Hubbard’s first move to own Hardy 
& Son had been made a year before, when he maneuvered 
to get Mr. Brett and Mr. Merrivale upon the Hardy board 
of directors; that he had followed this by picking up 
gradually any stock that he could buy at a sufficiently low 
price; that he had tried to get rid of Mr. Hardy over the 
matter of the notes by a snap directors’ meeting, so that he 
could depress at will the price of stock, and that Gilbert 
and Colonel Mead alone had blocked the success of the 
plan; that he had been doing his best to gain control of 
the annual meeting with exactly the same purpose, and 
that again Gilbert was blocking his way; that now, with 
the unexpected success of Gilbert’s reorganization of 
Hardy methods of production, Mr. Hubbard was realizing 
that he must buy control of the works now or never, except 
at an increasing cost, and was scheming and working to 
that end; — if Sam Hardy could have known all that and 
could have believed it he could have slept well that night, 


198 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


and he could have faced the morrow with confidence. 
But the hard-bound rules of his life and character would 
not allow him to know or to believe anything of the kind. 
The disturbing human factor, the human weakness, 
entered, as it often does, to switch many a right cause off 
upon a siding, while a wrong cause thunders past it and 
ahead of it on the main line to success. 

“Nobody cares,” he muttered, his lips twitching ner- 
vously. “Most of ’em will be glad to see me go down. 
Moriarty, he’ll be glad, and Simpson, and the hands. 
Nobody’ll care. And what’ll I do? Everything I’ve got 
is in the shop. I’ll be a beggar, a nobody, a thing to be 
laughed at and joked about.” He pressed his head with 
his hands as if to steady his thoughts. “No,” he whim- 
pered, trying to shut his teeth, “no, there’ll be a way out 
yet, Sam Hardy. There’ll be a way out yet.” 

He was still sitting there when Clare Hardy knocked 
at the door, and came in hesitatingly at his gruff sum- 
mons. 

“ I saw the light as I came up the street,” she said. “ I 
thought I’d look in on you, and find out how you are 
feeling.” 

He had risen laboriously as she entered and stood facing 
her. Clare Hardy saw the weary look in his eyes and the 
unaccustomed whiteness of his flabby cheeks. A sudden 
wave of pity went over her and, before he could stop her, 
she went to him and put her arms about his neck and 
kissed him. To her surprise he caught her to him and 
held her close. And so they stood for a full minute. For 
the first time in his long life of devotion to business, Sam 
Hardy confessed that he needed someone’s affection and 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 199 


support; and in that moment his feeling of hopeless lone- 
liness left him. 

“You’re a good girl/’ he said, patting her back awk- 
wardly in embarrassment. There was a suggestion of 
tears in his eyes and in hers. She squared him off with 
her hands on his shoulders, and peered at him so closely 
that he grew uncomfortable under her scrutiny. 

“You’re worried and tired,” she said. “You ought to 
go away and rest. You haven’t been away all summer.” 

Mr. Hardy shook his head and tried to smile. 

“Not very tired,” he replied hurriedly. “Not very 
tired. I can’t quit now. In a week or two p’raps I’ll 
quit.” He paused for a few seconds. “ What ’d you do,” 
he went on, “if I should lose all I’ve got? What ’d you 
do and what d’ye think your mother ’d do?” 

“Do?” cried the girl. “Do? Why, I’ve got Hardy 
blood in me.” 

The old man stiffened proudly. 

“ Do?” Miss Hardy continued. “ We’d form a partner- 
ship and begin all over again. I almost wish you would 
lose it, every penny of it. Perhaps, then, I’d amount to 
something and not mope around the house and read silly 
books. But you aren’t going to lose it. Now sit down 
and tell me all about it.” 

She pointed imperiously to the chair he had vacated, 
and seated herself at the other side of the table. Bright- 
ened momentarily by her infectious confidence he sat 
down as she bade him. As he looked at the papers, how- 
ever, still evenly piled with business-like neatness, the 
gloom returned and he shook his head again. 

“No,” he said wearily, “you wouldn’t understand.” 


200 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ You’re not a bit flattering.” The girl toyed flippantly 
with a paper cutter. “You think I don’t understand 
anything about business. Now listen. You said to- 
night that that unpleasant Mr. Brett wanted to see you. 
I’ve been thinking about that. How much stock of your 
own and of other people’s have you?” 

He looked dully at the added figures on the paper. 

“Only about twenty-four per cent, of the total,” he 
said with slow precision. 

“Well,” Miss Hardy spoke rapidly, as if she feared that 
she would forget what she had prepared to say. “I look 
at it in this way. Mr. Brett and the rest of them have 
enough to win with yours. They probably wouldn’t 
come to you unless they had. And they haven’t enough 
to win without you, or they certainly wouldn’t come to 
you. Is that clear?” 

“Yes,” nodded Mr. Hardy, “that’s clear unless — well, 
go on.” 

“Well, if you’ve got twenty-four per cent. — that’s what 
you said, isn’t it? Yes, well, if you’ve got twenty-four 
per cent, and they’ve got enough to win with you but not 
enough to win without you, then Mr. Gilbert and Colonel 
Mead can’t have enough to win without you either. And 
you hold the balance of power.” 

The girl had remembered it and she smiled triumphantly 
to herself. Mr. Hardy, puzzled over the rapid statement 
of what sounded like some algebraic problem, coughed to 
hide his perplexity. He repeated the words to himself, 
and gradually light dawned upon him. He jumped to 
his feet and began pacing to and fro excitedly. 

“You may be right,” he said, and his voice trembled 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 201 


as he spoke. “That accounts pTaps for Mr. McNish 
coming to me for Gilbert, too. They’re in the same fix. 
They’re each holding the other one from getting at me. 
Gilbert may have enough by now, though ” 

“ He hasn’t,” cried Miss Hardy. “That is, I’m sure he 
hasn’t.” 

She herself was trembling, as she watched suspicion 
and doubt and belief struggle for control of his mind. 

“ I believe you’re right,” said Mr. Hardy slowly. “ I’ve 
said there’d be a way out. I’ll boss that meeting yet” — 
his eyes gleamed at the thought — “unless they should 
join up.” 

Miss Hardy leaned forward. Her woman’s sense had 
made her expect this difficulty. Her knowledge of tac- 
tics, if not of actual business, was keen enough. 

“Don’t you think that Mr. Brett or Mr. Hubbard or 
whoever was doing it would have tried that first?” she 
asked. “Wouldn’t they leave you as a last resort?” 

“You’ve got a good head.” Sam Hardy looked down 
at his daughter admiringly. “Guess I’d better let you 
do my thinking for me after this: I’m played out. But” 
— his brow creased again — “I don’t understand Jack Gil- 
bert’s game.” 

“ Perhaps,” remarked Miss Hardy tentatively, as if the 
idea had just occurred to her, “perhaps he’s working for 
you all the time.” 

Sam Hardy frowned and grunted with disgust. 

“That’s the first fool thing you’ve said,” he growled. 
“ That’s the woman of it. I tell you, men don’t do things 
for other men. They work for Number One. He went 
over me nearly two months ago, for Number One. And 


202 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


he’s playing some game now, for Number One. I made 
him and he’s turned on me. I’ll do him if I can and he’ll 
do me if he can. So get that out of your head quick.” 

Miss Hardy did not dare press the point. Instead she 
changed the subject. 

“I’d suggest,” she said, as if the matter of John Gil- 
bert’s intentions had not been mentioned, “that you have 
Billy McNish see Mr. Brett for you to-morrow, that you 
let me take care of your papers and not leave them in your 
safe at the shop where somebody might get them, and 
that you go away for a week’s rest early in the morning.” 

She arose while she was talking and went across to him, 
and she put one hand on his shoulder caressingly as she 
stood by his side. He looked at her doubtfully, but there 
was an alertness in his whole attitude that had not been 
there a half hour before. 

“I can’t go away,” he said, and there was something 
very much like apology in his tone. “I’ve got to stay 
and see it through. Your idea about McNish is all right. 
I’d rather do it myself, but I guess your way’s better. 
I’ll have him find out how things stand, too. Of course, 
you take the papers along. Put ’em in that strong box 
there and keep ’em safe. I’m glad to get rid of ’em.” 

Clare Hardy followed his pointing finger and brought 
the dusty box from the shelf of the open closet. She had 
deposited the papers within and locked it, and was putting 
it under her arm, when she felt her father’s hands on her 
shoulders. Before she knew it he had kissed her. He 
turned away almost shamefacedly. 

“ You have got Hardy blood in you,” he said in a muffled 
voice. “And you’ve got a good head, too.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


203 


“I got it from you,” she retorted as she reached the 
door. 

“Perhaps that’s where mine’s gone to,” he answered 
with an attempt to be jocular, as she bade him good- 
night. 

Clare Hardy sped along the hallway and up into her 
tower room, never stopping until the box was deposited 
carefully underneath her bed, and the door closed and 
locked. 

“I’ve done it,” she repeated breathlessly. It seemed 
days since she had left the parsonage, and years since 
Mrs. Brice had left her in charge of the boy. She glowed 
with achievement, and she was certain that she was right. 
Clare Hardy had never distrusted Gilbert, even when her 
father in his first rage had exploded with his whole 
biased story, that noon after the Fourth of July party. 
Honesty, she had told herself in her moments of character 
study, was the only thing that redeemed his homely face 
and his slouching, awkward figure and his manners, which 
were unconventional, to say the least. He was honest and 
strong. She stood ready, she had told herself, to doubt 
him on any other score. She had refused to see him, 
because her father had declared that Gilbert “should 
never set his foot in the house again.” And perhaps be- 
cause of the prohibition she had wished, far more than 
ever before, to see him and to talk with him and to make 
certain of her reading of him. 

The two months had brought to her new sensations 
and new responsibilities. Her father’s evident illness, 
and her mother’s irritability, which increased in ratio 
with Mr. Hardy’s worry; the possibility, at which her 


204 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


father had hinted now and then in his moments of de- 
pression, that they might find themselves suddenly poor; 
all these things had made the girl feel that she must not 
only brighten Mr. Hardy and soothe her mother, but 
that she must accomplish something herself as well. 
For some weeks she had been giving much of her time 
to the direction of the housework, checking servants’ 
extravagances, planning simpler meals, managing the 
cleaning, and generally putting an end to the former 
expensive, slipshod regime. She had made many mis- 
takes but, on the whole, she had found more enjoyment 
in it than in her old irresponsible life. She had needed 
something to do, she said to herself. If this was not the 
height of her ambition, at least it was something done; a 
beginning, perhaps, for something else that would be more 
to her liking. And now, she felt, she had helped her 
father at a crisis. 

She wondered suddenly why she trusted John Gilbert 
so completely. There was something else about him, 
she knew to-night. He had a way of making other people, 
herself included, do what he wished them to do, and she 
was not certain that she liked it as applied to herself. As 
she turned out her light she heard the echo of heavy foot- 
steps on the sidewalk of the silent street. Peering out of 
the window, she saw the unmistakable giant figure of the 
man she was thinking about, under the electric light at 
the corner. Impulsively she wished to throw up the sash 
and to call to him that everything was all right. Instead 
she stood still, the night breeze blowing in upon her, until 
he had disappeared up the street in the darkness. Then, 
with a little sigh, she went to bed. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 205 


The Colonel had parted with Mr. Moriarty at his own 
gate. They had planned between them John Gilbert’s 
entire campaign for mayor, on the way down the street. 

“ Oi’d loike to have him goin’ so fast from the start that 
he kud walk up the stretch,” Moriarty remarked just be- 
fore they said good-night, “ but ’twill be close anny way ye 
luk at it. They’ve got the money, but he’s a gentleman 
as well as a workingman, and he ought to win.” Mr. 
Moriarty retained, unconsciously, something of the old 
country’s class distinctions. 

“Jack’s a real man, every inch of him,” replied the 
Colonel, “and,” he added whimsically, “thar’s a good 
many inches.” 

When he had lighted his lamp the Colonel tried to read 
the evening paper. All the headlines, however, seemed 
to spell alike to him that night. “John Gilbert Elected 
Mayor.” The mere thought of it thrilled his loyal old 
soul. During his varied life in the West as soldier, pony- 
express rider and miner, he had been for a year the sheriff 
of a small, but decidedly energetic, mining town, and he 
had as great a respect for office as he professed to have 
lack of respect for most officials. He pondered over Mr. 
Moriarty’s plans, and gradually he fitted himself into each 
one until he had laid out more work for himself than he 
could have done in six months. When at last he looked 
at the clock he found that it was long past his usual bed- 
time. He was beginning his preparations for closing up 
and going to bed, when Gilbert surprised him at the door. 

“You look like the Statue of Liberty, Colonel,” Gilbert 
remarked as the veteran appeared with lamp upraised. 
“ I just dropped in to tell you about this political business. 


206 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


I'm not going to run. That’s settled. I wanted to get 
it off my mind.” 

“Why, you’re all elected, boy. Got it all worked out 
in my mind,” declared the Colonel. 

“Can’t help it, Colonel. Sorry, but I’m out of it. 
Tell Moriarty so if you see him.” 

Colonel Mead groaned. The headlines were fading 
away, and all his evening’s dreams and plans were crum- 
bling. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“Well, I’m going to vote for Billy McNish.” 

The Colonel made a wry face as if he had taken bitter 
medicine. 

“Billy McNish,” he repeated sarcastically, “thet 
dresses like one o’ these advert-ise-ments of Noo York 
tailors. Billy McNish! Did I ever tell ye about the note 
he wrote me — note, not a letter, d’ye hear? Billy, he 
couldn’t write a hull letter without changin’ his mind 
’fore he finished it. It wuz about that little proceedin’ 
Fourth o’ July night. It wuz so slushy thet it’s a wonder 
it didn’t soak through the envelope, an’ it wuz addressed 
to Ralph Mead, Esquire — Esquire, do ye savvey?” * 

“Oh, that’s all part of Billy’s artistic temperament,” 
laughed Gilbert. 

“Artistic temp’rament?” sneered the Colonel. “Lord, 
I hev that ev’ry mornin’ in bed. When a woman hes a 
boy, thet’s so lazy an’ shiftless an’ gen’rally good fer 
nothin’ thet thar ain’t ord’nary words fit to describe it, 
she alluz says he’s got ‘ artistic temp’rament.’” 

“Billy’s all right, Colonel.” 

“Yes, Billy’s all right — fer decorative perposes. I tell 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 207 


ye, Jack, feather-bed Irvin’ makes feather-bed men. Ye 
can’t get around it.” 

‘‘I’ve got another bit of news for you.” Gilbert res- 
cued Billy’s character from the Colonel’s relentless dissec- 
tion by changing the subject. “ ‘ The old man’s ’ thinking 
seriously of going over to the other side. I heard it 
straight to-night.” 

Colonel Mead drew in his breath in a long whistle. 

“That means hitchin’ up and puttin’ for shelter,” he 
remarked. 

“ No, I think I’ve stopped him. Never mind how.” 

“Have, eh?” mused the Colonel. “Well, you be keer- 
ful. Ridin’ somebody else’s hoss too far hez got many a 
man strung up fer stealin’ of it. Didn’t think it o’ Hardy, 
though. Thought he had too much sand.” 

“They wouldn’t be after him unless they were a bit 
desperate. There’s no love lost, you know,” said Gilbert. 

“That man Hubbard!” The Colonel forgot the lamp 
in his emphatic conviction, and the light was blown out 
by the unexpected gesture. The Colonel soberly exam- 
ined it before he went on. “That man Hubbard,” he 
began again, “ is the kind of man thet ’d make friends with 
his dead mother-in-law, ef he thought he could jump a 
claim in hell by a-doin’ of it. But I ain’t thinkin’ o’ him 
nor o’ Sam Hardy. I’m thinkin’ of you. Thar’s two 
games I ain’t got any use for — give-away in checkers an’ 
that fool game o’ hearts. They’re too benevolent. They 
make ye think o’ some texts in the Bible. ‘ He that loses 
most wins,’ an’ ‘ Make yerself poor an’ ye shall be rich,’ an’ 
such like. Seems like, when ye read ’em, thet it’s only a 
step from paradox to paradise. An’ it’s my observation 


208 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


thet a man thet plays good give-away never plays good 
checkers. I want you to play checkers and run fer 
mayor.” 

“I won’t give away anything that belongs to me,” 
Gilbert broke in to stop the Colonel’s flow of words. “ I 
haven’t got time to be mayor, and I haven’t the brains to 
be mayor, and I’ve promised Billy McNish I’d work for 
him.” 

“Well,” sighed the Colonel, “ ef ye promised I suppose 
that’s the end of it.” 

“Say, Colonel, how about Tubb?” asked Gilbert, stop- 
ping half way down the walk after they had said good- 
night. 

“ Oh, he’s still Tubb, Lord help him! Still got his straw 
up to see which way the wind blows, and still got his ear 
to the ground. Ez far ez I kin make out, wind’s kinder 
variable, and he ain’t heard nothin’ loud an’ clear.” 

“He’s up to you, Colonel.” The gate slammed and 
Gilbert swung off down the street. Colonel Mead turned 
into the house once more, but he was not thinking of Mr. 
Tubb. 

“Thar’s one satisfaction,” he remarked to himself with 
a grin, “I ain’t promised nobody.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


MISS HARDY GOES CALLING 

W HEN Clare Hardy awoke the next morning at 
the servant’s sharp rap at her door, she 
curled up sleepily for a moment, the thought 
that the maid was in a bad humor alone crossing her 
drowsiness. She could always read vindictiveness or 
buoyant spirits or respectable timidity in these morning 
knocks. Then she noticed, with some interest, that the 
breeze that sifted through the curtains was cool and that 
a long ray of sunshine lay along the edge of the bed. 
She leaned forward and thrust her bare, slender fore-arm 
into the sun’s mild warmth, and watched the yellow 
radiance flicker there as the wind-blown curtains played 
in and out of the light’s pathway. Then suddenly she 
uttered a low cry and, darting forth from the covers, she 
leaned and drew from beneath the bed’s edge the rectan- 
gular, black strong-box. She opened it nervously, and, 
finding its contents untouched, she locked it again with 
a quick little gasp of relief. Then she took it into her 
arms and held it close and sat thinking. All the bright- 
ness of the morning seemed to concentrate in her eyes 
and to be reflected in the smile about her mouth. What 
a fresh, fine world it was, to be sure, and how good it was 
to be living in it! When she arose and moved about the 

209 


210 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


room as she dressed, her step seemed to have lost its old 
lightness. It was alert and confident. She was no longer 
that Clare Hardy who had lived indolently, aimlessly, 
constantly dissatisfied, the threads of her character lying 
loose, unwoven. Something or somebody had caught up 
the straying strands and was weaving them strongly to- 
gether. She threw aside the curtains and looked out at 
the bright new world. Then, smiling, she went down- 
stairs. 

It was a silent breakfast, with Mrs. Hardy's chair 
vacant as usual and “the old man" busy with the morn- 
ing Register as he gulped his coffee rapidly. Sam Hardy 
had come to look upon meals, and upon breakfast in par- 
ticular, as necessary evils to be finished as quickly as 
possible. They delayed business. He devoured his food 
between news paragraphs, and then, shoving back his 
chair with a business-like scraping, he hurried out into 
the hall. Miss Hardy created an innovation by rising and 
following him. 

“I hope you have a good day, partner," she said. “Is 
there anything I can do?" 

For answer he turned back from the door and, putting 
his arms about her awkwardly, he kissed her. 

“Guess not, thank ye," he said shortly, to hide his em- 
barrassment at the unusual proceeding. “Take good 
care of mother." Then he turned and hurried out, for it 
had occurred to them both that this was the old formula 
he had used when she was much younger, words which he 
had not spoken in years. 

“Why don't you go out for a walk, the day's so fine?" 
Clare asked her mother later, as Mrs. Hardy, in a flowing 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 211 


morning gown, sat eating her breakfast daintily in her 
rooms upstairs. 

“The sun is too bright, my dear,” she said, looking 
toward her window and shaking her head. “There is 
nothing more hideous than freckles for a woman of my 
age, and I always freckle terribly. Did your father say 
anything about our going away somewhere this Fall?” 

Miss Hardy said that he had not. 

“I suppose not,” went on Mrs. Hardy with a sigh of 
irritation. “But we really must do it. People are talk- 
ing, I know, because we have been in town all summer. 
Someone said to me the other day that it was a blessing, 
for those who haven’t the money to go away, that the 
summer on the whole had not been severe. We must go 
to some unusual place next month. 

Clare Hardy judiciously picked up the tray of dishes. 

“Let Mary take them, child,” commanded Mrs. Hardy. 

“Mary is busy. I’ll take them,” the girl said deci- 
sively. “And I think we oughtn’t to bother father 
about going away just now. He’s too worried about 
his business.” 

Mrs. Hardy looked up in surprise. 

“He is always worried about his business,” she said 
quickly 

“But this is different,” Miss Hardy asserted from the 
doorway. “He has told me all about it. We ought to 
help him.” 

Mrs. Hardy sat still in her chair for a long time. Down 
underneath the outer artificial shell which she had been 
taught to wear from childhood, Mrs. Hardy was a good 
woman with a kind heart. He, her husband, had told 


212 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Clare, her daughter, all about his business. He had not 
told her. She remembered that at first, years ago, he 
had tried to tell her. She had made him understand then 
that she did not care to know about it all, that she had her 
duties just as he had his, and that the less each troubled 
the other with his or her difficulties the easier it would be 
for both of them. That feeling had been the result of her 
training. Now, after nearly thirty years, she suddenly 
wondered if she had not been wrong; if, after all, she did 
not wish to hear of his work and his plans and his worries. 
A feeling almost of jealousy of her own daughter flashed 
through her heart, and showed her, quivering there, her 
old-time love for him, a love she had always felt although 
she had hidden any expression of it. She had believed that 
weakness of this sort, excusable enough in the young, 
should be covered up by those who realize the serious 
conventions of life. Could it be, she asked herself, that 
the misunderstanding, that made a gulf between them, 
was in part her fault? She tried to read and she could 
not. “We ought to help him,” she repeated, and it 
seemed to her that Clare, her daughter, was sitting in judg- 
ment upon her. Could it be possible that the factory, 
which had yielded them money uncomplainingly for so 
long a time, was in any real danger? A half hour later, 
more shaken than she would have cared to admit, she 
braved the sun to walk down to the center of town. She 
could not stay still in that house another moment, she 
said to herself. It may be added, however, that she wore 
a heavy black veil. 

When Clare Hardy had given the machinery of the day’s 
housework sufficient impetus so that it could not run 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 213 


down until nightfall, she turned toward the high terraced 
garden next door. She had been going there often all 
summer, assured of her welcome by Mr. McNish when- 
ever she saw him. The break in the hedge had never 
been filled, although the green from each side made the 
passway narrow, and through it she went, hatless, the 
sleeves of her shirtwaist rolled up to the elbow and her 
short skirt swinging free from the twigs and grasses of 
the path. Slowly she walked past the gardens of the ter- 
races, and on to the little summer-house that still stood in 
the clump of woods behind them. Here she curled her- 
self up on the broad seat and, half turning, rested her 
arms on the railing and her face upon her arms. And 
so she sat for some time. A squirrel ran up the sod 
directly before her and sat back upon his haunches 
sociably. Birds perched nearby on the railing and 
looked at her inquisitively, their heads tilted to one side. 
But she paid no attention to them. At last Mr. McNish’s 
kindly voice recalled her to the present. She had been 
living in the past and in futures of her own planning. 

“May I come in?” he asked, as he reached the steps. 

“May I stay?” she asked in reply, using his inflection. 

Mr. McNish smiled and bowed in his courtly way, and 
sat down opposite her. 

“You like the place, eh?” he said. 

“Yes,” she said simply, turning toward him. Mr. 
McNish was a man to invite simplicity. “It's like a 
colony of very old friends. The flowers all nod to me in 
the gardens, and this spot seems to me like a protecting 
pair of arms, always open to me. It’s strange, isn’t it, 
what a shelter one’s memories make for one?” 


214 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“Memories?” He was obviously amused. “Memo- 
ries for a child like you? You ought to be thinking 
about prophecies. Leave the memories for old fossils 
like me.” 

“Do you know,” Miss Hardy went on confidentially, 
“I think I like it best out here when it’s raining. The 
trees drip all about one and the roof hums with the beat 
of the drops, and all the time one sits here dry and com- 
fortable. It's being out in the rain without getting wet, 
don’t you see?” 

Mr. McNish nodded gravely. 

“Same sensation you have in a bomb-proof with the 
shells bursting all ’round,” he said. 

“Billy doesn’t come out here very often, does he?” 
asked the girl, after a long pause. The utter quiet and 
contentment of the place made the talking desultory. 

“No,” said Mr. McNish, “he doesn’t. Young blood, 
you know; a thousand things to do at once; a thousand 
ambitions to be satisfied. By and by he’ll find out that 
there’s more music in a robin’s chirp than there is in the 
shouts of a mob. Sometime a cluster of flowers or a tree 
in blossom will be prettier to him than his name in print. 
Sometime he may learn a lot of things like that. I hope 
he’ll have the luck not to find ’em out too late.” 

“You believe in luck then?” queried Miss Hardy. 

“With a boy like Billy,” nodded Mr. McNish soberly. 
“What most people call luck is only a matter of knowing 
what you want and getting it. But Billy’s different.” 

“Yes,” assented Miss Hardy, “Billy is different from 
almost anybody I’ve ever met.” 

“Billy isn’t sure of what he wants and he don’t know 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 215 


how to get it,” Mr. McNish went on. "He goes out and 
looks for four-leaf clovers. You know what I mean. A 
man like that may not find one until he’s pretty old, and 
then it’s likely to be withered. I don’t want Billy to be 
like that.” 

Mr. McNish drummed uneasily upon the floor of the 
summer-house with his cane, and Miss Hardy sat silent, 
not knowing what to say. 

“ Strange I should talk to you about him,” he said. 
Then he added with a twinkle in his eye, “And yet I don’t 
know that it’s so strange either.” 

“It’s very interesting — and — nice of you,” Miss Hardy 
answered non-committally, a bright flush creeping into 
her cheeks. Billy’s father looked across at her and 
changed the subject hurriedly. 

“Speaking of the garden and this place,” he said, “I 
always feel like a visitor myself, as if I didn’t really 
belong here. Every time I come out here I feel as if I 
ought to go and ask Mrs. Gilbert, or be a trespasser.” 

“I hardly know what she’s like now.” Miss Hardy 
looked dreamily past him. “ She used to be very kind to 
me, long ago.” 

“She’s kind to everybody,” declared Mr. McNish. 
“She’s a wonderful woman. I can’t tell you about her. 
You’d have to know her to understand.” 

“I’m going to,” said Miss Hardy deliberately. “What 
do you think of John Gilbert?” she added after a pause. 

Mr. McNish looked at her questioningly for a moment. 
“You’ve probably heard things about him,” he said. 

Miss Hardy assented, and waited with a well-feigned 
air of indifference. 


216 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“Well.” The elder McNish could be sententious on 
occasion. “ I don’t think anything about him. I know. 
I’ve known that boy ever since he was in kilts, and his 
heart’s as straight and as big as his body. He’s not very 
handsome and he’s not over-quick, but he’s got a back- 
bone that ’d make most others seem like water reeds to 
an oak tree. He’s as stubborn as a regiment of army 
mules; he’s as gritty as General Grant ever was; and he’s 
as kind as his mother. There’s just one word that de- 
scribes him. He’s inevitable. That’s it — inevitable. 
You mark my words.” 

Having delivered himself, Mr. McNish snapped the lid 
of his watch vigorously and added that he must go down 
to the store. An hour in the morning and two in the 
afternoon satisfied him now for his day’s work. He had 
worked eighteen hours a day often enough in the past, he 
declared, to keep his average good for the rest of his life. 

“This is your back yard,” he said with his usual cour- 
tesy. “Come often.” 

“I’ll ask Mrs. Gilbert if I may,” she laughed. 

“Do,” he said, “do. I wish you would.” 

Long after the fine old gentleman had gone Clare sat 
repeating his words over and over to herself. “Inevi- 
table,” she repeated, “inevitable.” There was something 
almost menacing about the word. 

After a quiet luncheon, to which Mr. Hardy did not 
return, Clare dressed to go out. She wore a simple, blue, 
tailor-made suit, but anyone who had seen her stand long 
moments before the glass would have known that she 
was unusually anxious to look well that afternoon. As 
she was crossing the threshold she remembered suddenly 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 217 


that the meeting with Mr. Brett, which they had talked 
of the night before, came at four o'clock. She must make 
the papers safe beyond any chance of her father's changing 
his mind. Returning, she took them from the strong- 
box, and, putting it in plain sight on the closet shelf, she 
placed the papers with feminine caution in a wicker case, 
under a layer of handkerchiefs. Then, laughing to her- 
self at her stratagem, she hurried out. 

Mrs. Gilbert was upstairs in her little sewing-room when 
the bell rang. 

“And who might that be?" she said to herself, as she 
tore off her apron and went slowly down the front stair- 
way, smoothing away unruly wrinkles from her dress. 
She started when she saw the vision in blue, and threw 
her shoulders back primly. 

“I came to see you, Mrs. Gilbert," said Clare Hardy, 
stretching forth her ungloved hand, “if you're not too 
busy and if I'm not in the way." 

Mrs. Gilbert relaxed and caught the hand with her own. 

“Come in," she said heartily. “Come right in." 

She started to lead the way into the tiny parlor that 
faced the street, but Miss Hardy hesitated. 

“ You came from upstairs, Mrs. Gilbert. You were do- 
ing something. Let me go up with you and talk while 
you work, or — let me help you." 

“All right," Mrs. Gilbert said readily enough. Then, 
like any young girl, she gathered her skirts together that 
she might run up the stairs. “I was just doing a bit of 
sewing, and it's as gay to have company in one room as 
another." 

When they were comfortably seated in the bare room 


218 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


above, Mrs. Gilbert smiled at Miss Hardy over a needle 
she was threading. 

“I used to say, Miss Hardy,” she said, “that no woman 
would ever see anything here but the parlor and the 
dining-room. They have some of the old things, and I 
wasn’t so ashamed of them. I think you are the first to 
get up the stairs. It was false pride, I know, and I was a 
very prideful woman. I’ve laughed about it many times. 
But somehow you can’t laugh away your weaknesses and 
you wouldn’t if you could, I think. They’re the marks 
that make you feel at home with yourself.” 

“But sometimes they aren’t part of you, at all,” said 
Clare quickly. “They’re just outside conventions. I 
came here to make a confession, and you’ve made one first 
to make it easier for me. I ought to have come here a 
hundred times. I wanted to come, too, and I never have, 
just because others didn’t. It’s as if I’d rented my 
existence from other people, and lived according to their 
rules. I’m more ashamed than I can say and I’m sorry 
to have lost you all this time. I hope you’ll forgive me.” 

No one could have helped forgiving the girl with that 
frank appeal in her eyes and with the utter humility of 
her words. Least of all could Mrs. Gilbert, who leaned 
forward and patted Miss Hardy’s hand affectionately. 

“You spoke it very nicely, dearie,” she said, with a 
motherly tenderness that suddenly filled a place in the 
girl’s heart which she had not realized was empty. “I 
know how it’s been. I’d likely have done the same in 
your place. I’ve never really laid it against you, although 
I’ll own I’ve missed you.” 

“Sometimes it seems to me,” Miss Hardy said impul- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 219 


sively, “that we’re all a lot of frauds. I was thinking 
to-day that if we should be poor, my friends would prob- 
ably turn their ba^Ks on me — all my own sort of people, 
I mean.” 

“The friends your money buys, your lack of it sells,” 
answered Mrs. Gilbert. Then, catching herself, she went 
on hurriedly, “But there are excuses for them. They 
can do things you can’t do, and you soon drift apart. And 
as for your own sort of people, I find that almost anybody 
can be my sort of people if I give them a chance.” 

Clare Hardy knew that this gentle-voiced woman was 
the moving force of the women’s work at her church, and 
that she was active in many of the organized benevo- 
lences of the town. She knew that Mrs. Gilbert must 
have denied herself constantly during all those years of 
Jack’s schooling, and that, always since, mother and son 
had struggled along on absurdly small means. She had 
had what Miss Hardy considered a hard life, for the last 
twenty years, and yet she seemed to the girl little older 
for the years or for the toil. There was an atmosphere of 
complete contentment about her and about the humble 
little house, that astonished and charmed the girl. 

“I was in the old garden this morning,” she said at 
last. “ Mr. McNish told me I should ask your permission 
to go there. Perhaps that’s one reason I came to-day.” 

Mrs. Gilbert laughed happily. 

“He said that, did he? He’s a good man, is Donald 
McNish. He’s tried to have me come over to see it but, 
somehow, I haven’t the courage. How does it look?” 

“Just the same. You’d scarcely notice a change.” 

“Well,” sighed Mrs. Gilbert with evident pride, “he 


220 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


couldn’t have made it prettier than it was. Those were 
bonny days, bonny days.” She stared, unseeing, at the 
work lying idle in her hands. Then she picked it up 
with new energy. “ But so are these,” she added. 

Miss Hardy sat silent for so long a time after this that 
Mrs. Gilbert became curious. 

“What are you thinking about so long?” she asked. 

“I was wondering,” said the girl frankly, “if I could 
ever learn your secret for keeping happy.” 

“Why, I’ve no secret at all.” Mrs. Gilbert was slightly 
embarrassed by this sudden personal turn of the conver- 
sation, but she liked it. She hesitated a moment. Then 
she stiffened herself proudly. “It’s a Mackenzie trait to 
forget defeats and remember victories,” she said. “ It’s 
a Mackenzie trait to think well of yourself and of your 
neighbors, and not to waste your time and patience 
mourning over all your failings and gloating over 
everybody’s else. It’s a Mackenzie trait to have work 
enough to do to keep you company. It’s a Mackenzie 
trait to have a good strong lad who’ll think of you 
a year before he’ll think of himself. And it’s a 
Mackenzie trait to shift all your burdens to the Al- 
mighty shoulders that are always waiting to bear 
them. There” — she stopped and smiled across at the 
girl, — “you’ll be thinking I’m a boastful and preachy 
woman, but it’s often and often, I’ll tell you, that I’m a 
bad Mackenzie.” 

“Blood tells,” mused Miss Hardy. 

“Oh, aye, blood tells, but you don’t always listen to 
it, more shame to you.” 

Miss Hardy nodded thoughtfully. Then, remembering 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 221 


suddenly her real errand, she tried to turn the conversa- 
tion to John Gilbert. She expected to mention it casually, 
as if it were a natural part of the talk. But always Mrs. 
Gilbert outmaneuvered her. The mere suggestion of his 
name set his mother gossiping of anything and everything 
else. At last Miss Hardy arose to go. 

“I wish you’d tell Mr. Gilbert,” she said desperately, 
“that the matter he was interested in is all right.” 

Mrs. Gilbert showed none of the surprise she felt. 

“ He’ll be very glad to hear it,” she said gravely. She 
had no intention of letting the girl think that there 
was anything about Jack that his mother did not 
know. 

“I’ll look for you often,” she said at the door. “I was 
saying to John the other night, that all my friends were 
growing so old that I’d have to find somebody beside him 
of my own age to talk to.” 

There was no sign of guile in her eyes as they searched 
Clare Hardy’s face, but, when the girl had gone, Mrs. 
Gilbert neglected to go back to her work. She sat won- 
dering what there was between her son and this girl, 
where they had met and why he had told her nothing 
about it. She determined to find out everything when 
he came home. Perhaps she did and perhaps she did 
not. A mother’s knowledge is the only bottomless pool 
that has never been fathomed. 

They had an almost inconceivably enjoyable dinner 
that night at the Hardys’, without an unpleasant word 
or a jarring incident. In the hallway, afterwards, Sam 
Hardy took the girl to one side. 

“ You were dead right,” he said. “ I’ll own that meeting 


222 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


with twenty-four per cent, of the stock. I’ll show ’em 
yet whether Sam Hardy ” 

Mrs. Hardy had stopped indecisively at the bottom of 
the stairs, but now she came swiftly to them. 

“Samuel,” she said with set lips, “I wish you to tell 
me all about it.” 

Mr. Hardy looked from one to the other in open amaze- 
ment. 

“All right,” he said at last. “Come in here.” 

He led the way into the library, and Clare Hardy 
slipped away up the stairs, leaving them together. What 
a fine, fresh world it was, full of things worth doing to do, 
and things worth thinking about to think about, and, she 
added to herself, people worth knowing to know. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE COLONEL LOSES HIS TEMPER 

H AMPSTEAD was an old-fashioned town politi- 
cally. Only comparatively few, men who had 
offices, men who had ambitions and men who 
had time for everything except work, attended the ordi- 
nary nominating caucus of either party. The rest of the 
male population accepted the nominations and voted on 
strict party lines. Business men occasionally remarked, 
when the assessor’s notice came to them, that “taxes were 
mighty high and city improvements mighty small,” but 
they were too busy to do more than talk. No one had 
ever hinted that the city money might have been spent 
dishonestly or even unwisely. No one had ever thought 
much about it. When the citizens of Hampstead read 
reports of corruption in the large city governments of 
other sections of the country, they smiled at each other 
with smug satisfaction. Nothing like that could ever 
happen in Hampstead, they were sure. 

The News and the Morning Register , during the week 
preceding the rival caucuses, stated daily that “ the polit- 
ical situation remained unchanged.” The Register , owned 
and controlled by ex-Congressman Strutt, said: “The 
Hon. Mr. Brett will be nominated again for mayor with- 
out a dissenting voice. Our opponents will probably run 
somebody against him, but Mr. Brett’s magnificent record 
223 


224 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


will make the election a walk-over.” The News, Inde- 
pendent, said: “The Hon. Mr. Moriarty, speaking of the 
coming caucus on Thursday night, stated that the race was 
still open. Those most prominently mentioned as candi- 
dates for mayor have been Captain McNish, the young and 
popular attorney, and Judge Morrison. Either of these 
two men will make it interesting for the Hon. Mr. Brett, 
who will of course be renominated. Some time ago there 
was some talk of running Mr. John Gilbert, the new man- 
ager of Hardy & Son, against Mr. Brett, but nothing has 
been heard of it recently.” Hampstead read these re- 
ports and remarked casually that “they” were thinking 
of running young McNish for mayor, although it could 
not have told and did not greatly care who “they” were; 
and mouthed the titles with very undemocratic satis- 
faction, without noticing that Judge Morrison had not 
been a judge for nearly fifteen years, that Billy McNish 
had never been more than lieutenant, or asking why Mr. 
Brett and Mr. Moriarty had been dignified with an Hon- 
orable. On election day Hampstead would vote if it had 
the time, but it was much too busy to think about it 
beforehand. On the whole, Hampstead would have 
called it a dull week, filled to the full with the usual, unex- 
citing, money-making, living-earning routine. 

Meanwhile a small minority of men were unusually 
active. Colonel Mead’s behavior was extraordinary. 
Often when they were together during that week, pulling 
their final drag-net for Hardy stock proxies, Gilbert 
noticed that the Colonel seemed absent-minded, almost 
indifferent, that he chuckled merrily to himself when 
nothing in their conversation warranted merriment, and 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 225 


that he had mysterious engagements “down town,” — 
extraordinary proceedings for the Colonel, whose time 
was usually limitless and entirely at Jack’s command. 
Of course Gilbert did not understand until afterwards. 
There was only one man in Hampstead who completely 
understood, and that was Mr. Moriarty. 

Moriarty had conducted conspiracies before and he 
liked them. He admitted to himself, however, that this 
one was different. Usually his plotting concerned men 
who were yearning for any or every office in sight. It 
was the first time in his political career that Mr. Moriarty 
was planning to nominate an unwilling candidate. In 
spite of his enthusiasm for Gilbert, Moriarty probably 
would have hesitated to take such a step if he had not 
been persistently urged on by Colonel Mead. As it was, 
the little Irishman was silently putting all his wires in 
working order, and he was keeping Gilbert’s name away 
from the newspapers and from the loose tongue of “com- 
mon talk.” The Colonel was to arrange that Gilbert 
should not attend the caucus, and both of them were to see 
him afterwards and convince him that, once nominated, 
he would be a traitor to his party if he refused to make 
the campaign. Colonel Mead was certain that Jack’s 
scruples about his promise to Billy McNish had decided 
him against permitting his name to be used, and the 
veteran reasoned that these scruples would be satisfied 
if the nomination came unsought and in the face of a 
definite refusal. 

Mr. Strutt and Captain Merrivale and Mr. Brett met in 
secret conferences often during the week. It was said, 
also, that the quiet Mr. Hubbard was seen coming from 


226 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Mr. Strutt’s offices on a day when the three were closeted 
together there. Perhaps they were arranging Mr. Brett’s 
campaign, for they were the leaders of his party; or per- 
haps they talked of the situation at Hardy & Son’s and 
the annual meeting which was set for the Saturday be- 
tween the two political caucuses; or perhaps Mr. Hub- 
bard’s visit was merely over legal matters, and the meeting 
of the four men only a pleasant chance. Nobody ex- 
cept the four of them knew, and nobody paid any atten- 
tion to it except Jimmy O’Rourke, who happened to have 
an errand in the block which contained Mr. Strutt’s 
offices. Jimmy’s presence, unfortunately, was noticed by 
Mr. Hubbard, and that afternoon the boy was summarily 
dismissed from the employ of the Hubbard mills. He 
was out of work only a few hours, however, for he found a 
place immediately at Hardy & Son’s. 

Sam Hardy seemed to be busy also. He spent two or 
three evenings in Tareville with the director whom the 
Colonel and Gilbert had awakened on Fourth of July 
night. Billy McNish was rushing feverishly from friend 
to friend for support. A strange man with a clean- 
shaven face, who said little, who swaggered with self- 
satisfaction and who wore a diamond shirt stud, came to 
Hampstead one night. He was driven directly to Mr. 
Hubbard’s house, and he returned in time to catch the 
eleven o’clock train for New York. No one would have 
known of his visit if the hackman had not been talkative 
that night, as he sat munching a sandwich at Mr. Lump- 
kin’s night-lunch counter. It was not such a dull week 
in Hampstead after all. 

On Thursday afternoon Billy Mcl^ish sat alone in his 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 227 


law office. Through the window he was watching a group 
of boys playing about the edge of the fountain in the 
square. From the next room came the steady click- 
click of his stenographer’s typewriter. Billy knew that 
he was certain to be beaten at the caucus that night. He 
knew that Moriarty was against him and for somebody 
else. John Gilbert, Billy felt certain. But, strangely 
enough, Billy was less discontented than he had been 
at any time since his first proposal to the Irishman on 
Decoration Day. It was over now. He had done the 
best he could. At least he had been a gentleman, he said 
to himself. The Republicans had had an inkling of 
Moriarty’s plan and had offered Billy inducements to bolt 
with his following to Mr. Brett’s support, and Billy had 
refused point blank. When he had met Mr. Brett for 
Mr. Hardy, the Mayor had hinted at very definite personal 
gain for Lawyer McNish, if Mr. Hardy could be influenced 
to vote his stock with Mr. Brett at the annual meeting, 
and Billy had brought the conference to a close with an 
abruptness that evidently amazed the banker. Billy 
had seen Clare Hardy coming from the Gilbert house late 
one afternoon, and he had not followed his first jealous im- 
pulse to mention the fact casually to Mr. Hardy. No, he 
had played fair from the start, he told himself. And it 
was true. If Billy found part of his contentment in 
enlarging to himself his own goodness, and in considering 
himself a kind of martyr to his own honesty, he should 
not be blamed for it. It was part of his temperament. 

The door opened and Mr. Moriarty came in. He 
walked directly to the desk and extended his hand with 
the utmost friendliness. Billy shook it heartily. He had 


228 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


nothing against the little Irishman, he told himself in a 
kind of ecstasy of chivalry. He had nothing against 
anybody. He would be known as “a good loser.” He 
almost believed in the part as he played it. 

“Oi’ve just been hearin’,” began Mr. Moriarty, “that 
ye’d likely work against us if ye ain’t nominated to- 
night. I want to tell the man that told me so, that he’s 
a liar. Faith, he’s bigger than Oi am an’ Oi want moral 
support.” 

Billy laughed. 

“Go ahead, Moriarty,” he said. “You’ve got it.” 

The Irishman took two cigars from his bulging vest 
pocket, one short, shapeless and black; the other long, 
shapely and brown. With something like a sigh, he 
handed the short one to Billy and stuck the long cigar in 
his own mouth. But he did not light it. A moment later 
he absent-mindedly replaced it in his pocket. 

“Have one of mine,” suggested Billy, “and tell me 
about it.” 

“About the se-gar?” asked Mr. Moriarty, rubbing his 
chin reflectively to hide his embarrassment. “That’s 
politics. ’Tis my only graft. For a month before eliction 
I swear off buyin’ se-gars. Ivery man that wants any- 
thing is suddenly as generous as if he was the happy father 
av a hundred brand-new babies, an’ I was the only wan 
congratulatin’ him. But there’s a difference. Take them 
two se-gars. Old Prifesser Gunter comes up to me an’ 
he’s a real gentleman, the Prifesser. An’ he says, 1 Good- 
mornin’, Mr. Moriarty,’ an’ he slips the nice little black 
wan into me fist. The Prifesser ’s a Republican, but he 
loikes friends. Some of his own party, Brett an’ that 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 229 


crowd, are down on him; he’s been runnin’ the school so 
long. Then bym-bye up comes Martin Jethro, that wants 
to stay in the Council. He slaps me on the back. 1 Hello, 
Mike!’ he says. ‘Have wan o’ my se-gars.’ An’ I takes 
the long brown wan, while he tells me how much it didn’t 
cost.” 

“ But what are you keeping it for? ” asked Billy. 

“If we’re beaten I might want to commit suicide,” said 
Mr. Moriarty soberly. 

Billy smiled and waited. 

“Oi’ll tell ye something on the Q. T.” Mr. Moriarty 
chose his words slowly and carefully. “Oi think — av 
coorse Oi dinnaw — but Oi think that the caucus ’ll nomy- 
nate Jack Gilbert to-night. Oi want you to withdraw 
an’ make it a sure thing. Some av thim are wantin’ the 
old Judge an’ not a young man at all.” 

“No,” said Billy, with that air of complete decision 
which few but indecisive men ever attain, “ I won’t with- 
draw and I won’t bolt. That ’ll have to do.” 

“An’ ye’ll stick to that?” Moriarty asked doubtfully. 

“ Of course I’ll stick to it,” retorted Billy, irritably, who, 
like many other people, was most sensitive at the weakest 
spot in his character. 

Moriarty nodded with conciliatory approval. 

“Good luck to ye,” he added as he left the room. 

Billy arose and stretched his short fat arms and yawned. 
It was John Gilbert then. He shrugged his shoulders and 
fumbled aimlessly with the papers on his desk. There 
was nothing much to do at the office, nothing that he 
couldn’t let go until to-morrow. He had not seen Clare 
Hardy in four days. He had not wished to see her, 


230 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


strangely enough, while there was still a fragment of 
hope. Now that defeat was certain he wished to see her 
more, it seemed to him, than he had ever wished to see 
her in his life. He told himself that he ought to wait 
until to-morrow, when the thing was done with and when 
he could dismiss it all as ancient history. But he wanted 
to see her now, to tell her all about it and to have her 
sympathy. Billy was one of those men who double a 
woman’s burden without measurably lightening their 
own. 

He left the office in charge of his stenographer and 
climbed West Hill, preparing upon his face a look of 
martyred melancholy lighted by a sad smile. As he 
neared the corner below the Hardy house, he saw the 
familiar slender figure emerge from the gateway and turn 
up the hill ahead of him. He walked faster and whistled 
a trio of notes they had used for years as a signal. At the 
sound she turned and, seeing him, she waved and came 
swiftly back. They met at the gate. Billy protested 
violently that she must not delay her calls for him. Miss 
Hardy declared that she was tempted to take him at his 
word after the way in which he had neglected her. Then, 
entirely satisfied, they turned leisurely up the walk and 
found comfortably unconventional seats on the veranda 
steps. 

“Oh, you’re always busy,” Miss Hardy asserted. 
'Whenever men haven’t a shred of decent excuse, they 
always say they’ve been busy. But what makes you look 
30 downhearted?” 

“I don’t and I’m not,” Billy replied, using the sad 
smile and looking more downhearted than ever. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 231 


“You look as if you'd lost your last friend/' said the 
girl. 

“No, I think I have one left.” Billy smiled at her 
mournfully. 

Miss Hardy looked at him intently, obviously per- 
plexed. Then, as she thought, she changed the subject. 

“Let me see,” she said, “it's to-night you’re to be 
nominated for mayor. I suppose you’ve a speech all 
prepared.” 

Billy laughed bitterly. Of course she thought that. 
Everybody thought that. That was the worst of Mori- 
arty’s silence. 

“I wish I might hear it,” she rattled on, mistaking his 
laughter for good humor. “Can’t you smuggle me in 
somehow?” 

Since they had met at the gate Billy had changed his 
mind about telling her. A man was a cad, he told him- 
self, who went around tattling his troubles. But this 
was too much for him. 

“The joke is,” he remarked, trying suddenly to be 
jovial, “that they’re going to nominate Jack Gilbert.” 

Miss Hardy started in her surprise. 

“That’s — impossible,” she said hesitatingly. 

No, he assured her, it was true. Then, little by little, he 
told her the whole story from the first mention of Gilbert’s 
political ambitions on Fourth of July night. He told her 
what he had heard Colonel Mead and Mr. Moriarty say 
outside the Gilbert house a week or so before, and what 
Mr. Moriarty had been doing in his silent campaign, and, 
last of all, what Moriarty had told him that very afternoon. 
Miss Hardy listened breathlessly, trying to understand. 


232 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


"It doesn’t matter much, of course,” Billy concluded, in 
the tone of one who is trying to be brave under difficult 
circumstances. “Jack would make a good mayor, I 
guess.” 

“ It’s a shame, Billy. I’m terribly sorry.” Miss Hardy 
spoke with impulsive sympathy. “I thought you said 
that he promised to help you.” 

“He did, but of course neither of us had an idea then 
that he was a possibility.” Billy’s defense of Gilbert did 
not seem very convincing. 

Miss Hardy sat thinking for a few seconds. 

“Have you said anything to him about it?” she asked 
eagerly. 

“I should think not,” said Billy, throwing his head 
back with an independence he did not feel. “I’m not 
begging my way.” 

“And he hasn’t said a word to you?” asked the girl. 

“No. You see, the last time we talked we didn’t quite 
agree about some things, and I suppose that’s made him 
feel different. I don’t really know what to think.” 

“ That’s no excuse for him,” said Miss Hardy, and then 
she was silent. 

“But I don’t want you to waste your time hearing 
about my troubles,” insisted Billy frankly, satisfied now 
that all his troubles had been told. “I was just on the 
way to the house anyhow. You go on and make your 
calls.” 

After Miss Hardy had spent some minutes saying all 
the cheering things she could think of, she acquiesced and 
they went out together. When he left her at the gate of 
the big house, Billy walked vaingloriously straight and 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 233 


whistled buoyantly and hoped that she might turn and 
admire his courage. He knew that he was posing and he 
cursed himself for it, but he did not stop his whistling or 
his strutting or his hoping that she would notice. But 
Clare Hardy did not turn. She was hurrying along to- 
ward Mrs. Gilbert’s with the “ inevitable” ringing in her 
ears. Yes, he would win. He always won, and for the 
moment she hated him for it. But this was winning un- 
fairly. If John Gilbert deliberately went back on his 
word to a friend for the sake of selfish gain, the entire 
superstructure of the man toppled. She had granted him 
honesty and strength, but this was not honest. It was 
not like the man as she thought of him. If he was dis- 
honest in this, might he not be dishonest in that miserable, 
puzzling struggle at the shops? Perhaps she had been 
wrong in advising her father. Perhaps what Gilbert had 
told her at the parsonage was untrue, a part of a trick by 
which he alone would gain. If he took this nomination 
she could never trust him, she told herself, or her own 
judgment again. Another man might do a dozen worse 
things and still be attractive, but with John Gilbert she 
felt that strong truth was the foundation of everything. 
That gone, there was nothing left but sordid ruin. There 
must be some mistake, she tried to convince herself, some 
misunderstanding. So much depended upon him. To 
Clare Hardy anything unsettled was unbearable. And 
she stood at last at Mrs. Gilbert’s door, with the convic- 
tion that she must do something quickly, that she must 
learn certainly that John Gilbert was or was not what she 
had thought him. 

When Gilbert said good-night to the watchman at 


234 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Hardy’s that night and walked home, he confessed to 
himself that he was tired. Even his great frame and 
steady nerves were beginning to feel the strain of double 
responsibility and worry. His head was full of shop 
odds and ends as he sat down at the supper table. Mrs. 
Gilbert watched him solicitously. She noticed every 
wrinkle that creased his forehead where his bushy eye- 
brows met, and every line about his mouth. Suddenly 
she gave a little cry — such as memory, vjhen it jumps sud- 
denly out of the dark, startles from elderly people — and 
hurried into the sitting-room. She came back with an 
envelope in her hand. Gilbert took it wonderingly. 
When he had read, the little note it inclosed, he pushed 
back his chair and, asking her to keep the rest of the sup- 
per standing for a few moments, he took his hat and 
strode out and down the street. He turned in at the big 
house, and, asking permission of the obviously surprised 
Mr. McNish, he went directly through the house and out 
into the garden. 

The great hydrangea bushes that lined the first terrace 
were loaded with bending bloom, and welcomed him back 
into the wonderland of his boyhood. Great bunches of 
purple grapes hung temptingly from trellises like those he 
had climbed. In the long beds of green, occasional blos- 
soms still remained to conjure up sweet memories for him 
with their odors. Over at the left was the evergreen tree 
from which he had fallen, and Jerry the gardener had 
lectured him about the limb he had broken from the tree, 
before either of them knew whether the boy’s limbs were 
broken or not. But now the grown-up boy scarcely more 
than noticed any of these things. He pushed on by the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 235 


straight pathway over terrace after terrace, past the old 
apple tree hanging fresh-cheeked pippins within his reach, 
on toward the little clump of trees beyond, his heart beat- 
ing fast although he had not hurried. 

She rose to meet him, her gray dress showing against 
the dusk of the trees. It was hard for her to begin, but 
he had been summoned and he waited for her. 

“ I didn't know where else to see you,” she said. 

Her face in the half darkness was very serious, and her 
eyes seemed to search his intently. 

“ There couldn't be a better place,” was all he said. He 
felt instinctively that something was wrong, that she was 
troubled. Perhaps he might help her. He waited eagerly 
to hear, knowing in his heart that whatever she asked he 
would do. 

“I won't keep you long.” Miss Hardy was trying a 
new beginning. “I don't want to make you late.” 

“Late? What for? I don't care if I am, but what 
for?” 

“Why, the caucus, of course.” Clare Hardy’s eyes did 
not leave his face. If she expected to see shame and em- 
barrassment she was disappointed. Instead he smiled 
good-humoredly. 

“That is to-night, isn't it,” he said. “I'd clean for- 
gotten it. I'm not going.” 

“Forgotten?” asked the girl with growing excitement. 
“Not going?” 

“No. The Colonel — Colonel Mead, you know— made 
me promise to be at home to-night. He's coming up. 
I’m not much on politics anyhow. Suppose I ought to 
have gone.” 


236 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ But” — the words stumbled in their haste to be said — 
“but — you're a candidate, aren’t you?” 

Gilbert shook his head gravely. He was becoming 
decidedly puzzled at her insistent questions. 

“ They talked of it a little — not much. But I couldn’t.” 

“Why?” Miss Hardy waited breathlessly. 

“ Oh, a good many reasons. I didn’t have the time. I 
don’t know the game. I’d be a lovely mayor, wouldn’t 
I, fresh from overalls and machines? Then there was a 
bigger reason than all the rest, a personal reason that ” 

“You’d promised Billy,” broke in Clare Hardy triumph- 
antly. 

Gilbert stared at her incredulously. 

“How did you know that?” he asked. “What’s up 
anyhow?” 

“Billy told me,” cried the girl and then, her tongue 
loosened, she told him all she knew. 

“He was too proud, don’t you see?” she added at the 
end. “ He wouldn’t tell you and so I’ve done it for him.” 

Gilbert had listened, his face growing more stern. They 
were going to nominate him against his will. They 
wanted him enough for that. The old struggle came 
back to him, but he silenced it quickly. That was set- 
tled. He had learned something else, harder to bear than 
any little sacrifice of place or power. She was doing this 
for Billy. It was Billy’s success she wished, not his nor 
anybody else’s. Of course it was. He had known it all 
the time, but he knew now that he had refused to think 
about it, that he had tried not to believe it. He looked 
at his watch in the dim light as she finished. 

“I’m obliged to you, Miss Hardy,” he said a little 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


237 


wearily. “I guess Fd better go to that meeting after all. 
As you said, I might be late. Good-nigh t.” 

“ What are you going to do?” asked the girl. 

He turned where the path led back into the garden. 

“Just make it right,” he said simply, and he was soon 
lost in the growing darkness. Clare Hardy went into the 
summer-house and threw herself upon the long seat. It 
was all “ right ” now. He could be depended upon. That 
was far more important, it seemed to her now, than being 
mayor or “bossing” a shop. She wondered what he 
would do. Perhaps Billy would be nominated, after all. 
She clapped her hands together at the thought. She de- 
cided that she was growing to be a great diplomatic suc- 
cess. But — Gilbert looked tired, she suddenly remem- 
bered. 

The hall was crowded. The benches overflowed into 
the aisles and the aisles into the hallway, in choppy waves 
of noisy humanity, surging, jeering, scuffling its feet, 
pounding its hands, shouting jokes at nearby neighbors, 
howling for action. Even when the meeting was called 
to order there were familiar cries and good-natured 
epithets hurled at the committee chairman, from the 
swaying mass below him. There was more quiet later, 
when the venerable judge, who had once been mayor of 
Hampstead, made his short speech as chairman of the 
meeting. When the cheers that followed his words had 
ceased to echo, whispers ran along the crushing lines and 
men who had been joking with each other before, became 
humorously stern-faced and antagonistic. At the rear 
the little Irishman, who had early packed the best seats 


238 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


with the men he could depend upon, and who knew ex- 
actly how every individual except a few would vote, stood 
silently chewing a cigar. Each of the three nominations 
for mayor was followed by applause. Moriarty smiled. 
Then the crowd relaxed to cast the first ballot. 

In the noise and confusion no one heard the slight com- 
motion at the rear. No one, not even Mr. Moriarty, 
chewing his cigar happily and talking quietly with Colonel 
Mead, saw the broad, erect figure push its way forward 
until it was half way to the platform. Suddenly Mr. 
Moriarty started and pointed. The Colonel began imme- 
diate pursuit, wrathfully hurling himself through the 
crowd which, because it understood only its own dis- 
comfort, swore at him and tried to stop him. But Mori- 
arty, hesitating only a second, bent over to the man next 
to him. A second later there rose a straggling cheer for 
John Gilbert, which grew in volume until good-humored 
bedlam reigned, and nervous men covered their ears with 
their hands. Gilbert, turning upon them from the front, 
raised his hand for silence. For an instant the noise 
diminished and then, supported from the rear, it increased 
once more. Gilbert shrugged his shoulders and sat down 
upon the low stage, noting quickly, as he waited, that those 
who were shouting for him looked like a large majority 
over those who sat silent. 

His appearance was an equal surprise to all, but every- 
one believed that it was part of Moriarty's plan to sweep 
the caucus without a chance of failure. The hoarse cries 
that the little leader had started had settled back into a 
regular, tireless rhythm accompanied with the stamping of 
feet, when the Colonel at last reached Gilbert's side. The 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 239 


men in all parts of the hall craned their necks to watch the 
conference, and the cheering diminished. Then it sud- 
denly stopped short. Gilbert had risen to his feet, his 
great body looming high above the Colonel and his hand 
on the old veteran’s shoulder. For a moment he hesitated, 
as if the words were slowly forming themselves into line, 
and when he spoke he drawled even more than usual. 

“I’ve just found out what was going on,” he said, after 
bowing to the chairman. “I’d like to ask the man who 
suggested me to withdraw my name, for I won’t take the 
nomination if I get it.” At this point Colonel Mead, 
whose face was red with suppressed anger and disap- 
pointment, tried to interrupt, but Gilbert paid no atten- 
tion to him. “I told my friends that long ago, and I 
thought it was all settled. I told them, too, that I 
thought the man to be named was Alderman McNisli.” 
There was a short, sharp burst of enthusiasm from the 
left. “I’m going to cast a ballot for him now, and if 
he’s nominated I’m going to work for him. I guess 
that’s all.” 

The crowd alternately cheered and stared. It wasn’t 
much of a speech, someone said afterwards, but if Gilbert 
had recited the alphabet he couldn’t have made more of a 
sensation. 

As soon as he had finished Gilbert turned to the Colonel 
and, slipping his arm through his friend’s, he tried to lead 
him back toward the rear of the hall. But Colonel Mead 
was not made of the stuff that gives up readily, and he 
was angry. His heart had been set on the success of this 
plan. To have it thwarted at the last moment by the 
n)M for whom he had labored, made him lose control of 


240 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


himself. He cast off Gilbert’s arm and turned again 
toward the swaying, hooting, cheering crowd. But Mr. 
Moriarty was ahead of him. Mr. Moriarty always thought 
first of the party and of his power over it. Gilbert’s 
speech had suddenly made his supporters, who had been 
eternally solid for him, unsettled and malleable. Any- 
thing might happen unless a firm hand caught them in 
time. Almost before the shouting of Billy’s friends had 
ceased, the man who had nominated Gilbert had with- 
drawn his name and seconded that of Alderman McNish. 
Then a miniature pandemonium arose, and it was this 
that the Colonel faced as he vainly tried to get the chair- 
man’s attention. Someone pulled him into a seat at 
last, and there, cursing the chairman, the meeting, and 
most of all, John Gilbert, he heard the vote announced 
which overwhelmingly nominated Billy on the first ballot. 

“They know the game,” remarked Moriarty, pointing 
to the crowd about Billy McNish as the meeting ad- 
journed, to Colonel Mead, who was passing. “If ye want 
anything out of a new-laid, successful politician, ye want 
to get after it quick. He’ll give ’em the whole town now 
he’s so happy. Hard luck, sir, wasn’t it? How’d he get 
the tip?” 

The Colonel shook his head like an angry dog and 
growled. 

Billy and Gilbert met near the doorway some minutes 
later, the one flushed with unexpected triumph, the 
other tired-looking but smiling. 

“Let’s get something to eat; I’m hungry,” drawled 
Jack wearily after the two had shaken hands, but Billy 
hesitated a moment. He craved even more congratula- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 241 


tion. As he looked around, the Colonel appeared beside 
them. 

“Get out o’ my way, John Gilbert,” cried the veteran, 
suddenly enraged at seeing the two together. “I’m 
through with you. God curse me if I ever lift a finger 
for you again.” 

Gilbert’s face turned white, and his eyes burned black 
with such fierce anger that the Colonel flinched uncon- 
sciously. Then Jack turned on his heel and walked 
away, Billy following. 

The Colonel shivered as if cold water had been dashed 
upon him. He was suddenly sobered. He looked after 
Jack for a moment, and then he hurried out and up the 
street. 

“I’m an old fool,” he repeated pitifully to himself. 
“An old fool.” 


CHAPTER XV 


THE SUMMONS 

I T was Saturday morning at Hardy & Son’s. Out- 
side in the street an occasional covered team 
dashed through the beating rain. Infrequent soli- 
tary pedestrians hurried by, gripping umbrellas that quiv- 
ered and rattled in the wind. At the corner entrance 
under the half shelter of the doorway, a stray dog crept 
wet and shivering. Within toiled the vast, reorganized 
machine, throbbing, grinding, shrieking, whirring, hum- 
ming. Scattered through it was the usual human chaos 
of square-jawed determination, low-browed ignorance, 
scowling passion, timid subservience, stolid indifference 
and alert ambition. The mills seemed cheerier to-day on ac- 
count of the rain outside, and the clock ran slower because 
work ended at noon. These things alone seemed to make 
the day different from other days, until Gilbert brought 
a group of men into the shops — outside men who wore 
good clothes and who suggested the annual meeting to 
some of the older workmen. The group passed rapidly 
on, listening to the big superintendent’s explanations of 
the changes that had been made, to his short orders to 
the men, and to his ready answers to sharp questions 
put by members of the party. And often, the great 
creature of men and machines, which seemed to purr 
contentedly about the little cluster of stockholders, 
242 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 243 


seemed suddenly to crouch behind them when their 
backs were turned, and to snarl with sneers and covert 
hatred. In a few moments, however, they were for- 
gotten, and the clock ran slower and slower toward the 
anticipated half-holiday. 

Gilbert left the party of visitors at the door which led 
into the offices, and returned with a sigh of relief to the 
shops. He had done all that he could do. The issue 
remained with Sam Hardy. Jack had given the Colonel 
a proxy for his stock along with the others. He was 
certain that his own appearance at the meeting would 
only aggravate Mr. Hardy’s feeling against them all. 
To the stockholders, moreover, the Colonel and Mr. Mc- 
Nish represented their side of the struggle. Except for 
Jack’s hasty trip to Pittsfield and Springfield, he had 
been a silent partner in the movement. He felt, too, 
that he could not add anything to the Colonel’s fighting 
grit and ready, picturesque speech, or to the elder Mc- 
Nish’s diplomacy. After all, the result depended upon 
Sam Hardy, and “the old man” seemed to be obdurate. 
Billy McNish, flushed with his success and eager to make 
amends, had gone confidently to Mr. Hardy the day 
before. He had returned utterly disconsolate. “The 
old man” had evidently been drinking, Billy said. He 
had talked wildly. He had seemed hopelessly suspicious 
of everybody. He had even suggested that Billy had 
turned against him. Billy’s elevator-like spirits had 
descended to the deepest sub-cellar of depression. And 
the outcome of the meeting, with all that it meant to 
Hardy & Son, remained a mystery. 

As Gilbert tramped down the long lines of men and 


244 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


machinery, they seemed to him a kind of supporting 
phalanx of power. These were the evidences of the work 
he had begun, and the foundation of his hopes. The men 
were beginning to believe in him, to believe in his ability 
to do things, and to believe that he meant well by them. 
He meant that they should share in the success, if suc- 
cess came. But there was no time now for day dream- 
ing. From a dozen different corners the work was calling 
him. It was not until nearly an hour later that he went 
reluctantly up to his little office to dictate some letters. 
And always that momentous meeting, silent behind closed 
doors, seemed to threaten him and his work and his 
hopes. 

No one but Sam Hardy himself knew how he suffered 
during that week. When his momentary exultation 
over Clare’s discovery had passed, his old weakness re- 
turned. Each day that brought the meeting nearer 
seemed to tighten the strain. Often, dizzy, tottering, 
he caught the back of a chair or the edge of a table and 
held himself upright, his teeth clenched, breathing rapidly, 
his brain in a whirling agony. At night he lay awake, 
until it seemed to him that he must cry out with terror 
at something, he knew not what, that threatened him 
out of the dark. He tried in vain to steady himself, to 
think and to plan, and he beat his head with his hands 
in wild hopelessness. Even if he could hold the balance 
of power at the meeting he could see nothing beyond it 
except ruin. And yet, with the meeting as a goal, he 
braced himself and beat back his weakness and hysteria 
with something of his old dogged determination. 

As he faced them, that Saturday morning, his cheeks 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 24 5 


were bloodless and flabby, and his body sagged shakily, 
held up only by the tense support of his will. , But his 
brain seemed to be cleared for action, and his eyes were 
unnaturally bright, as they flashed a last glance about 
the room before calling the meeting to order. 

No such gathering of Hardy & Son’s stockholders had 
been known in years. Usually Mr. Hardy himself 
had controlled the stock at each meeting. Usually 
he had accepted his own report and had elected a board 
of directors of his own choosing. Usually this board of 
directors at a subsequent meeting had elected the officers 
whom Mr. Hardy suggested. Usually the meeting had 
been a formal farce, but to-day it looked more like melo- 
drama, as Billy McNish remarked to a stockholder from 
Albany, who had come to Hampstead to add his strength 
to the Colonel’s side. There were between twenty and 
thirty men in the room, divided naturally, by the long 
director’s table, into two factions. There was the Colonel, 
of course, leaning on one side of the table, grumbling 
loudly to two or three Hampstead men about the way 
in which Jack Gilbert had upset his plans at the Thurs- 
day night caucus. The Colonel had manufactured humor 
out of his own irritation, and even joked with Billy and 
the elder McNish about it. 

“Thar wuz Moriarty an’ me,” he remarked, as if he 
had entirely forgotten Hardy & Son’s crisis, “thinkin’ 
we wuz pullin’ wires, an’ all the time we wuz buttin’ a 
stone wall like a pair o’ fool goats. An’ now Moriarty 
sez I can’t talk about his red hair again, ’cause he sez I got 
redder-headed thet night than he’s ever been in his life.” 

Across the table, the opposing group surrounding Mr. 


246 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Brett and Captain Merrivale opened to greet ex-Con- 
gressman Strutt, who shook hands twice around with 
everybody and smiled his customary smile and repeated 
remarks about the weather. Sam Hardy’s eyes nar- 
rowed and his jaw set angrily, as he watched the ex- 
Congressman, whom he had once counted among his 
friends, join the men who were trying to take his shops 
from him. Alone by the window, still independent and 
undecided, Mr. Tubb, who had refused to join either 
party for fear of alienating his patrons in the other, sat 
combing his thin beard with his fingers and wrinkling 
his thin, sallow face as he eyed his double-chimed, side- 
whiskered, prosperous rival, Mr. Butterson of the Uni- 
versal Emporium. Mr. Tubb had never heard that Mr. 
Butterson held stock in Hardy & Son, and he was evi- 
dently aggrieved at the discovery. Certainly Mr. But- 
terson, fat and sober and blinking as usual, was there, 
sitting beside the director from Tareville, suggestively 
near the president’s desk. Others seemed to be inter- 
ested, for a number of men in both groups about the 
director’s table whispered and looked and nodded in the 
direction of the silent, solitary pair. 

The meeting came to order long enough for Mr. Brett, 
in his capacity as the secretary of the company, to begin 
making record of the stock represented. Then the talk- 
ing began again, subdued now and more desultory. 

“That paper’s no good, Colonel Mead,” remarked Mr. 
Brett, tossing one of the Colonel’s proxies back to him 
without looking up. 

“What’s the matter with it, except that it’s made out 
to me?” asked the Colonel in the silence that followed. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


247 


Mr. Brett smiled satirically as he picked out a sheet 
from one of the piles before him. 

“ Only this,” he said, referring to the paper in his hand. 
“ Since the gentleman gave you the proxy he has sold 
his stock to Captain Merrivale.” 

The Colonel thumbed his useless proxy for a few sec- 
onds. Then he turned suddenly upon Merrivale who 
sat self-consciously tilting back in a chair. 

“How much did yer friend Mr. Hubbard pay fer thet 
stock?” he asked. 

Captain Merrivale’s face flushed red, and he started to 
protest angrily. The Colonel interrupted him. 

“That’s all right, Captain Merrivale,” he remarked 
soothingly. “I jest natch’rally wanted to see the flush 
o’ shame. Ye kin alluz tell a steer by the owner’s brand 
onto it.” 

Captain Merrivale leaped, blustering, to his feet, but 
Mr. Hardy rapped for order. 

“Sit down,” he growled. “No personalities. I’m 
running this meeting.” 

It was the Colonel’s frank declaration of war. Mr. 
Hardy saw the danger he had emphasized. The director 
from Tareville leaned over to whisper to Mr. Butterson, 
who inclined his head and sighed noisily, as if the burden 
he was carrying was too heavy for mortal man to bear. 
Each statement of similar transfers — and there were 
three or four more recorded before Mr. Brett had finished 
— Mr. Butterson greeted with a similar sigh, which he 
followed with a complacent look that seemed to say that 
he, at least, was doing his full duty in the face of over- 
whelming odds. Mr. Tubb, meanwhile, seemed wholly 


248 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


fascinated by his rival's solemn face, until he learned that 
Mr. Butterson possessed only one share of stock. Then 
he smiled for the first time since the entrance of the pro- 
prietor of the Universal Emporium, a smile that broad- 
ened slowly and ended in a triumphant little cackle of 
laughter. Mr. Tubb was, however, the only man in the 
room who smiled at Mr. Butterson's solitary share of 
stock. Indeed Mr. Butterson had become the sphinx of 
the occasion, although his two hundred and fifty pounds 
and his bland, ministerial air were far from being sphinx- 
like. Billy McNish, describing the cash groceryman, had 
once said that Mrs. Butterson probably rocked the baby 
to sleep by placing it in Butterson’s arms, and reading him 
jokes to make him shake with laughter. 

There followed a number of laconic reports prepared 
rather for form than for information. Nobody seemed 
to listen to them and they were accepted readily. Every- 
one was eager to reach the election of directors. Then, 
of course, the real struggle would begin and the real 
strength of each party would be tested. During the 
reports Colonel Mead slipped a folded piece of paper 
into Mr. McNish’s hand. The elder McNish smoothed it 
out carefully, compared the figures it contained with 
those he had himself noted down, and nodded. The 
ColonePs notes when deciphered read: 


Hardy 5,528 

Hubbard 9,910 

McNish and Mead 8^842 

Tareville 325 

Butterson 1 

Tubb 200 

Not represented 194 


25,000 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 249 


Other pencils were working out the same result across 
the table, and the director from Tareville whispered 
once more to Mr. Butterson, whose gravity seemed 
strangely undisturbed by the fact that Mr. Tubb held 
one hundred and ninety-nine shares of stock more than 
he did. 

When Mr. Hardy declared the meeting open for the 
election of directors, the Colonel was on his feet immedi- 
ately to move Mr. Hardy’s re-election by acclamation. 
Mr. Brett was only slightly behind him. He seconded 
the motion. Sam Hardy smiled grimly, and the Colonel 
cursed under his breath. Mr. Brett’s ferret eyes watched 
the Colonel’s obvious irritation, but his face was stolid. 
The motion would have passed unanimously if Mr. Tubb 
had not been too engrossed in Mr. Butterson’s unexpected 
presence and extraordinary behavior, to listen. The only 
fact which Mr. Tubb realized was that his rival voted in 
favor of the motion. He, therefore, declared shrilly for 
the negative, to the confusion of Mr. Hardy and the 
amusement of the others. The diversion occasioned by 
Mr. Tubb was only momentary. He changed his vote 
quickly with a stumbling apology, and the Colonel once 
more took the floor, although the Honorable Mr. Strutt 
made frantic efforts to gain the president’s attention. 

“ Mister President,” remarked the Colonel, “I ain’t 
much of a business man. New-fangled business, ez fer 
ez I’ve seen it, is a joodicious combination of a soft smile 
an’ a sandbag. I reckon I wuz made a director in this 
concern ’cause ye thought I likely wouldn’t do harm.” 

“We’re greatly interested, of course, in our friend’s 
personal confession, and in the results of his observation,' 


250 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


broke in Mr. Strutt, rubbing his hands together ingratia- 
tingly, “but really, Mr. President, it isn’t electing direc- 
tors.” 

The Colonel chuckled. 

“ Been expectin’ that. Thet’s whar the sandbag begins 
to come in,” he retorted. 

“Come to the point,” growled Mr. Hardy. 

Colonel Mead hesitated perceptibly. Being hurried 
and being flurried usually rhymed in his temperament. 

“ I help to represent more’n a third o’ the stock at this 
meetin’,” he went on slowly. “I’m goin’ to state here 
an’ now what thet stock stands fer.” 

“But, Mr. President,” Mr. Strutt interrupted again, 
“all this takes time. Can’t our friend explain, by the 
way in which he votes, what his stock stands for, as he 
puts it?” 

“It don’t stand fer you, Mister Strutt.” The Colonel 
was beginning to lose his temper. “It don’t stand fer 
the soft smile ner the sandbag. It ain’t tryin’ to con- 
trol the company nor to own it. It stands fer the man- 
agement as now constitooted. It stands fer the president 
an’ fer the gen’ral manager. It stands fer the profits 
they’re likely goin’ to give us durin’ the next year. An’ 
it don’t stand fer the interference of an outside manu- 
fact’rer, who don’t like our competition, through his 
hired men.” 

Mr. Hardy hunched back in his chair nervously, as he 
met the Colonel’s keen glance. He looked across at the 
director from Tareville, as if to ask an opinion. Mr. 
Strutt, however, recalled his attention to the meeting. 

“Our friend seems to have so misunderstood our in- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


251 


tentions,” the lawyer began glibly, “and to have so 
misrepresented them, unintentionally no doubt, that I 
am forced to answer him for my friends here and myself. 
To use his reiterated phrase; — and we have enjoyed his 
oratory greatly. He has a real gift, a gift that we ought 
to hear in its expression more often, I’m sure. To use 
his phrase — and I’m sure no better one could be invented 
— we stand for exactly the things he stands for with one 
slight exception. We all know Mr. Hardy,” Mr. Strutt 
bowed to the president. “We all trust his long experi- 
ence and his tried abilities, but — and here is the exception 
— we know much less of the new general manager. He 
may be a valuable young man inside the shops. About 
that Mr. Hardy undoubtedly knows more than we do. 
But we cannot approve of the way in which he has forced 
himself upon the company, nor do we like the presump- 
tuous way in which he has undoubtedly attempted to 
gain control of the stock at this meeting. This has been 
done, of course, through his agents,” Mr. Strutt nodded 
to the Colonel, “and perhaps without their knowledge 
of his real intentions. We can scarcely be blamed for 
attempting to protect our large holdings in this company 
from this inexperienced young man with large am- 
bitions.” 

Mr. Strutt sat down amid murmurs of applause from 
his side of the long table. Mr. Hardy stared dully, first 
at the lawyer and then at Colonel Mead. He seemed 
confused. Mr. Strutt’s remarks had undoubtedly re- 
newed his suspicions of John Gilbert. They had un- 
doubtedly opened also the old wound to his pride, which 
the Colonel in his blunt way had tried to heal. 


252 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“Thet’s why you're buyin' up Hardy stock, I suppose," 
suggested the Colonel sarcastically. 

“If we are buying up Hardy stock" — returned Mr. 
Strutt in his most genial manner, — “and probably our 
omniscient friend knows more about it than we do. If, 
as I say, we are buying Hardy stock, it is obviously be- 
cause we have inexhaustible faith in the future of the 
company under Mr. Hardy's management." 

Mr. Hardy rapped for order. 

“Proceed to election of other directors," he said, 
gripping the arms of his chair as if to brace himself against 
all arguments. “Divided meeting. Elect 'em one by 
one." 

The Colonel shrugged his shoulders, and Mr. Strutt 
smiled pleasantly at Captain Merrivale, and Mr. Tubb 
muttered to himself that “Strutt 'd got 'em again." As 
the voting progressed Mr. Hardy's body seemed more 
tensely upright, and his mouth smiled with a set smile. 
He was proceeding exactly as he had planned before- 
hand, and he was controlling the meeting. He elected 
Mr. Brett and Captain Merrivale and Mr. Strutt by count- 
ing his votes with theirs against the Colonel. He elected 
the Colonel and Mr. McNish by turning his votes to them 
against the others. 

“I propose the name o’ John Gilbert," declared the 
Colonel, with a menacing gesture toward Mr. Strutt, “ an' 
I want to say that he didn't know I wuz goin' to do it. 
He ain't lookin' fer it. He's a stockholder an' he ought 
to be a director. The man thet's fightin' hardest fer the 
concern sure ought to hev ez much show ez them thet 're 
fightin' against it." 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 253 


Mr. Hardy shook his head impatiently. It was not 
in his plan. Gilbert was rejected, but Billy McNish was 
elected a director readily, when the Colonel suggested his 
name immediately afterward. Three from each side had 
been chosen beside Mr. Hardy; seven in all out of the 
nine. Then there ensued ten minutes of unsuccessful 
balloting. Every proposal from either side of the table 
was defeated with steady precision, until both parties had 
exhausted their lists of candidates. There was an inter- 
val of hesitant silence. Mr. Strutt, with an alert, sug- 
gestive look, caught the Colonel's eye, but the veteran's 
grizzled face turned away contemptuously. It was Sam 
Hardy's moment of moments. 

“Suggest Mr. Higgins of Tareville," he said hoarsely. 
All eyes turned toward the silent pair who sat near Mr. 
Hardy's desk. Mr. McNish whispered to the Colonel, 
who answered with a wry face and a nod. Mr. Higgins 
was elected. 

“Suggest Mr. Butterson," added Mr. Hardy. This, 
then, was the meaning of the grocer's one share of stock. 
Mr. Hardy had transferred it to him so that he might be- 
come the ninth director. Mr. Butterson smiled placidly 
at the contending groups when his election was an- 
nounced, but not so Mr. Tubb. Mr. Tubb’s sensitive, 
poetic soul was deeply wounded at this unexpected vic- 
tory of his rival. The fore legs of his tilting chair slammed 
resentfully upon the floor, and Mr. Tubb, muttering an- 
grily, flung himself out of the room, in the midst of the 
surprised laughter of everyone except sober Mr. Butter- 
son. And before the laughter had entirely died away, 
the stockholders' meeting was adjourned. 


254 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Slowly, to the noisy accompaniment of the stamping 
on of overshoes and the grating of moving chairs and the 
hum of small talk, the crowd thinned down until only 
the nine remained, the new directorate. The Colonel 
had sauntered across to the window, and, leaning on the 
chair which Mr. Tubb had vacated, he looked out at the 
rain and the leaden sky. Mr. Strutt, watching him, rose 
and started across the room to join him. He had scarcely 
left his place, however, when he was halted by a hoarse, 
unnatural voice. 

“Come to order.’ ’ 

It was Mr. Hardy. He had not moved from his former 
position, but he was manifestly excited. Feverish red 
spots glowed in his sallow cheeks, and now he threw back 
his shoulders with a jerky gesture. 

“Suggest for officers, ensuing year,” he went on, 
forcing his old arrogance into the words. “President 
and Treasurer, Hardy; Vice-President, Butterson; Sec- 
retary, Higgins of Tareville.” 

The room, except for Mr. Hardy’s raucous breathing, 
became suddenly silent. Mr. Brett, the former secretary, 
smiled sneeringly at Captain Merrivale, who fidgeted 
with a pencil in his fingers. Mr. Strutt, who had sunk 
back into his chair, still watched the Colonel. Only Billy 
McNish, with his almost feminine sixth sense, noticed 
the terrible tenseness of that stocky body in the presi- 
dent’s chair, or felt something clutch at his heart with a 
warning of impending tragedy. 

The Colonel turned back from the window and faced 
Mr. Hardy. 

“Sam Hardy,” he said, bitter anger and disappoint- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 255 


ment emphasizing each word, “ef thet’s what ye want, I 
move ye hev it. An’ then I want to remark thet ye make 
me think a hull lot of a boy I saw playin’ shinny last 
winter. He had his eyes on the ball, thet boy did, an’ 
thet wuz all he thought about. When he got it he was 
so plumb crazy thet he took it a-kitin’ toward his own 
goal. Th’ others on his side, they yelled continuous to 
stop him, but he wouldn’t pay any attention to ’em. He 
jest natch’rally lost the game fer them an’ fer himself. 
Thet’s what I reckon you’ve done, an’ I want to say thet 
I wouldn’t vote fer you fer janitor o’ this shop ef it 
wuzn’t fer Jack Gilbert.” 

Mr. Hardy put the motion mechanically, his wide-open 
eyes glaring at the Colonel. There was a pause after the 
vote was taken. They waited so long a time that Billy 
and Mr. McNish both moved uneasily in their seats. Mr. 
Hardy still sat, staring vacantly at the window. Then 
suddenly he swayed against his desk and slowly pitched 
forward headlong upon the floor. The weakened cords 
of “the old man’s” life, pulled tight for the crisis, had 
loosened, perhaps broken, with reaction. For a second 
or two the men before him sat motionless. Then, Billy 
McNish in the lead, they hurried to him. But John Gil- 
bert was ahead of them. He had opened the door from 
the hall, and, seeing the prostrate form at first glance, he 
had rushed to “the old man’s” side. Strangely enough 
Mr. Hardy had fallen against the button that rang the 
superintendent’s bell, sounding a summons at last for 
the man who had fought for him and whom he had fought. 

It was nearly noon when Gilbert returned to the shops. 
The Colonel was with him, but Billy had remained at the 


256 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


stricken Hardy house. Billy had seemed to know in- 
stantly what to do, and both Jack and the Colonel 
had felt that they were in the way. At the office door 
they passed ex-Congressman Strutt and Mr. Brett, and 
they found the director from Tareville and Mr. Butterson 
waiting for them. It seemed that the Honorable ex- 
Congressman had been arguing with the two new officials 
of Hardy & Son. “ Couldn’t even wait till they knew 
whether ‘the old man' had passed in his checks or not,” 
as the Colonel expressed it. The director from Tareville 
had told Mr. Strutt that he, as secretary, would call no 
meetings of the directors while Mr. Hardy was living, 
until Mr. Hardy was able to ask him to do so. He pro- 
ceeded now to assure the Colonel of the same decision, 
and Mr. Butterson nodded his head in solemn approval. 
As to the shops, they were temporarily in the hands of 
the general manager. Mr. Hardy had always ruled his 
office with such a complete one-man power that there 
was no one to take his place, but undoubtedly some of 
his clerks and assistants could help Mr. Gilbert with any 
puzzling problems, and he, Mr. Higgins, would come from 
Tareville every day or so while Mr. Hardy was absent. 

When they had gone Gilbert led the Colonel into his 
little office. 

“Couldn’t ’ve tangled it up worse, could he?” he said, 
as they sat down. 

The Colonel shook his head mournfully. 

“Thet man Strutt’s the devil,” remarked the Colonel, 
after a long pause. “He kin paint white black till ye’re 
color blind. He kin sling soft soap till ye’re smothered. 
He kin pull the wool over yer eyes till ye bleat like a 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


257 


lamb o’ his own flock. He kin lie so thet it sounds truer 
than all four gospels. I tell ye, boy, a man with a gift 
o’ gab like that ought to be sent to jail fer a year every 
time he opens his mouth. But he’s slick, Strutt is, an’ 
the great American beatitude is, ‘ Blessed are the slick, 
for they shall inherit the earth.’” 

“ They’ll be buying up stock now,” Gilbert said slowly. 
“We’ve got to stop ’em somehow.” 

“Stop ’em!” retorted the Colonel. “Ye can’t stop ’em. 
They’ve got the money. Why, Hubbard is money. I 
reckon even his bones jingle when he walks. I’ll bet he 
owns the biggest half of the stock he voted to-day. You 
calc’late how long it ’ll take him to git the rest, an’ twenty- 
five hundred odd shares more, into his corral, when he’s 
got nice, fat pasturage an’ we ain’t got a blade o’ grass, 
an’ I’ll tell ye how long it ’ll be before you ain’t got any 
job an’ our stock ain’t wuth two cents on a dollar. ’Course, 
McNish an’ I could put up some money to fight ’em, but 
it ’Id take hundreds o’ thousands, an’ they’ve got the 
start. We’d likely be ruined along with the concern.” 

“Oh, that’s out of the question, of course,” said Gil- 
bert quickly. “Perhaps the whole thing’s been a mis- 
take,” he went on musingly, “or perhaps we’ve made a 
mess of it somewhere. And ‘the old man’ stuck to his 
guns. I thought he’d come around. I thought he’d 
see. That’s where I miscalculated. Confound it, Colo- 
nel, it’s brutal to think of his losing the shops now. He’s 
getting old and he’s in bad shape. It ’Id kill him, or 
near it. Colonel, we’ve got to stop ’em.” 

The Colonel only wrinkled his forehead into a per- 
plexed frown for answer. 


258 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ Fve been wondering for a week or two,” Gilbert went 
on, “why they’re spending so much good time and money 
on this thing. There’s something back of it we don’t 
understand. Why should they ” 

“Look here,” broke in the Colonel. “Ef ye start that, 
ye’re on the way to the daffy-house. Why, every year 
a dozen er more collidge prifessers blow their brains out, 
’cause they can’t savvey the reasons fer the effervescence 
of the perpendicular of the why. A teacher-man turned 
up in camp down in Arizona one day. Tenderfoot? He 
wuz the tenderest, gentlest thing ye ever see; one of the 
kind thet smiles benevolently, while the women smooth 
him and stroke him and say what a fine, big, intelligent 
one he is. Well, he got talkin’, an’ I stood it all right 
till he sed thet I wasn’t real; sed I was only an idea. 
That made me mad, an’ I decided to impress thet impor- 
tant idea on him instanter. And when I got throo with 
him I reckon he had mainly one thought left in his head, 
an’ thet was me.” The Colonel smiled grimly at the 
memory. “But I didn’t git over him fer a week. I’d 
say to myself, 'Why is thet tamarack tree yander?’ 
Then I’d answer, 'Becuz the idiot ridin’ by in the trail 
never has.’ An’ when I finally did git sobered from thet 
reasonin’ jag I swore off hard. I tell ye, boy, don’t git 
the habit o’ tryin’ to lasso why a thing is, ’cause, if ye do, 
what it is an’ where it is ’ll sure git away from ye.” 

“There’s one satisfaction. We’ve cost ’em some money 
and, Colonel, we’ll cost ’em more before we get through. 
It isn’t done with yet, by a long shot.” The whistle 
blew, and Gilbert arose and went to his little window. 
“I can trust the men,” he went on, as he watched 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


259 


them hurry out into the rain. “ They're with me, any- 
how.” 

“ Don’t ye ride too fer on thet hoss,” retorted the 
pessimistic Colonel. “ Thar ain’t a man in the shop thet’s 
with ye ten dollars’ wuth. Thar ain’t an Irishman in the 
place thet wouldn’t curse ye fer a drink o’ whiskey, ner S 
a Dago thet wouldn’t knife ye fer a nickel.” 

“Go home and take a tonic, Colonel.” Gilbert spoke 
without turning. “You need to brace up. And say, ) 
Colonel,” he added with a rueful smile, as the veteran 
rose to go, “save some for me.” 

As Gilbert sat down alone it seemed to him that he 
could feel Mr. Hubbard’s long fingers closing remorse- 
lessly about him, and about that mammoth being of men 
and machines which Sam Hardy had given the best part 
of his life to build, and which he himself had recreated. 
He remembered a remark of the Colonel’s made only 
two or three days before. “ We’ve got the principle,” the 
veteran had remarked, “but they’ve got the principal, 
which latter is the only spellin’ recognized in America.” 
There was a knock at the door, and Joe Heffler stood on 
the threshold. 

“Anything I can do for you, sir?” he asked, fingering 
his hat nervously. 

“ Guess not, Joe, thanks.” 

Heffler hesitated for a moment. 

“Could I have two or three moments of your time, 
sir?” 

“Come in, Joe. Sit down. What’s the matter?” 
Gilbert pushed a chair across to him and leaned back, his 
hands caught behind his large head with its unruly mat 


260 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


of hair. Heffler sat down on the edge of the chair as if 
to assure Gilbert that he did not intend to bother him 
long, and leaned forward on the handle of his umbrella. 

“I don’t quite know how to begin, sir,” Heffler cleared 
his throat. “It’s about Miss — Miss Gerty Smith.” 

“But I thought we agreed that you weren’t to have 
anything to do with that.” Gilbert allowed his office 
chair to settle back to its normal position, in his frank 
surprise and interest. Heffler did not seem to notice the 
interruption. He went on as if he wished to finish a 
disagreeable duty. 

“I’ve taken a room on the same floor as hers and her 
sister’s, in that brick block on Broad Street. You’re 
right, sir. She’s been telling Mr. Brett — about things 
here.” Heffler stopped, and his hands worked convulsively 
about the umbrella handle. “He’s a — a scoundrel, sir, 
an infernal scoundrel. But,” — Heffler looked up with 
sudden appeal in his eyes, — “I don’t want you to put 
her out.” 

“All right, Joe, whatever you say goes.” 

“You won’t put her out, then?” asked Heffler, almost 
in a whisper. 

“Not unless you say the word. To tell the truth, Joe, 
I’d pretty nearly forgotten her. She can’t hurt us much 
now, I guess.” 

Heffler did not understand the irony of Gilbert’s tone. 
He understood only that the big superintendent would 
not discharge the girl. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said. Then he hesitated again, 
and ran his fingers nervously through his gray hair. 
“ She’s something of a friend of mine. She’s been tied up 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 261 


to — to him for going on a year now. I want to get her 
rid of him if I can.” 

Gilbert nodded sympathetically 

“He’s boasted to her,” went on Heffler, “that he and 
the rest of them, sir, would own this shop within three 
weeks from to-day. I told her they wouldn’t.” 

Gilbert leaned back in his chair again, wearily this 
time. He had partly forgotten his discouragement in his 
interest in Heffler’s story. 

“Three weeks,” he repeated. “That’s pretty quick.” 

“He’s told her something about how that Street Rail- 
way Bill was passed, too. I don’t know much about it. 
I suppose you aren’t interested in that, are you?” 

Gilbert stared thoughtfully straight into Heffler’s eyes. 

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am interested.” 

“And she knows something about that reservoir busi- 
ness,” Heffler went on, shifting his gaze to the window. 
“You know, the thing I spoke of to them before they 
got rid of me. She says that he — he is a mighty clever 
man.” 

Gilbert arose and walked slowly across the room and 
back. 

“She’s right, Joe,” he said at last. “He’s too clever 
for me. His whole crowd is too clever for me. Perhaps 
they’ll be too clever for themselves. That’s the only way 
we slow coaches get a chance.” 

Heffler had risen with Jack, and was moving now toward 
the door. 

“If you’re interested,” he suggested, without meeting 
Gilbert’s eyes, “I’ll find out all I can about those things.” 

Gilbert shook his head slowly. 


262 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ No, Joe. I don’t want you to do that sort of thing 
for me. She’s your friend, you know.” 

Joe Heffler stood still, looking at the floor for a moment. 
Then he nodded and went out. 

Gilbert cleared up his desk and plodded out into the 
steady downpour of rain. The dreary day seemed to fit 
his mood. He was tired, discouraged, temporarily 
beaten. Billy came out of the Hardy house as he tramped 
up West Hill, and they walked together the few steps to 
the McNish gateway. 

“ Brain fever,” Billy said laconically. 

“Hard luck,” was Gilbert’s short reply. “Very 
serious?” 

“Rather.” 

Gilbert walked on silently. He was thinking of the 
girl in the house Billy had left. 

Mrs. Gilbert watched her son furtively all that long 
afternoon and evening, as he sat working at the desk in 
the little library or tramping back and forth restlessly. 
Gradually, by unsuspicious answers to cunning questions, 
she learned much that was troubling him. But she said 
nothing about it until they were locking up the house 
for the night. 

“Laddie.” She was looking up at him as he towered 
above her. “There’s a word I mind my own mother used 
to say when things went as they shouldn’t. ‘ We’ve aye 
been provided for, and aye will we yet.’ I heard her say 
it often.” 

He realized then that she knew, and that she was 
worried for him. 

“Of course, mither,” he said, trying to seem indifferent. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 263 


An hour later, as he lay asleep, his great body sprawled 
across his bed upstairs, she tiptoed in and looked down 
at him, as he lay there in the moonlight that shone through 
the open window. 

“My little lad,” she whispered to herself, and there 
were tears in her eyes; “my little lad.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE APPEARANCE OF MR. CONLIN 


G ILBERT started and looked wonderingly at one 
of his draughtsmen, who stood staring in turn, 
his brow creased with silent astonishment. 
They had been bending over some penciled sketches of 
machinery which Gilbert had brought with him that 
Monday morning, when the bell from Mr. Hardy's room 
sounded. There was something uncanny about it that 
startled both men. 

“Wire crossed, probably." 

“Or the boy dusting." 

Together they leaned again over the littered desk, 
when, short and sharp, once more came the summons, 
emphasized now irritably. 

“If I didn't know it couldn't be, I'd say it was him." 
“I’ll go and see what's up. Only a minute. Wait 


here." 

Gilbert threw open the door of the president's office, 
and then stood transfixed with surprise. The office chair 
whirled around as the door opened, and in it sat the trim, 
rigid figure of a girl, whose face had a forced sternness 
that threatened to break instantly into spontaneous and 
tantalizing smiles. 

“You are very slow, Mr. Gilbert," said the low, musical 


264 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 265 


voice. “ Close the door, please. I wish to speak to 
you.” 

Gilbert closed the door obediently and faced her, sup- 
pressed humor showing in his eyes and about his mouth. 

She looked away quickly, biting her lips. 

“Did the — the molasses come for the foundry?” she 
asked. Then in spite of herself she lost control and 
leaned back, quivering with silent laughter. Gilbert’s 
smile broadened. 

“ I didn’t know we were out of molasses, Miss Hardy,” 
he drawled. 

“Didn’t you?” she said in a shocked tone. “Why, I 
supposed you knew everything — that is, about shops. I 
didn’t, of course, but I remembered father told us you 
used molasses in the foundry. It seemed odd, of course, 
and it was the only thing I could think of at the mo- 
ment. You shouldn’t make me laugh, sir. It spoils my 
dignity.” 

By this time Gilbert was leaning, with his arms upon 
the desk-top, looking down at her. 

“How is your father?” he asked. 

Her face sobered instantly. 

“He’s very ill. The doctors can’t tell yet.” 

“Why are you here?” he asked in his old, imperative 
way that made her defiant for the moment. 

“Partly to tell you that,” she said hesitatingly. 

. He waited in alert silence. 

“ Partly the old story of Mohammed and the mountain. 
You are a mountain,” she added, eyeing humorously his 
big, lumbering figure. 

Again his eye caught hers and she moved restlessly. 


266 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ Partly to see anything in his mail that ” Then 

she hesitated again. She glanced up at him, a rich red 
coloring her olive cheeks. 

“No, it isn’t that at all,” she went on hurriedly. “I 
can’t be of any use up at the house. They won’t let me 
go near him, and mother would rather be alone. I know 
some of the things that happened Saturday. I know 
that you’re trying to save him and that you’re in trouble 
about it. Billy told me. I thought, perhaps, I might 
help — a little — somewhere. It’s a woman’s part to do 
that.” 

As she watched him, she saw that he smiled steadily 
at her. 

“You’ve begun already,” he said quietly. 

They sat down at the table which had separated the 
contending parties at the meeting. 

“ Now tell me all about it,” she commanded. 

“Somehow,” he said slowly, “I think you’ll under- 
stand. Most women wouldn’t, I’m afraid.” 

Then, leaning his elbows on the table, he started at 
the very beginning with the first intimation he had had 
of Mr. Hubbard’s intentions. And, as he talked, he 
seemed to grow more and more interested in the story. 
This first unburdening of it all upon other shoulders 
seemed to free his own of some of their load. Once or 
twice he stopped, as if some new clue or an idea toward 
the solution of some difficulty had occurred to him. His 
wits sharpened under the friction of her questions. He 
forgot where they were. He forgot the man waiting 
idly in his office. He forgot temporarily who she was, 
and talked as if she were a business associate. And she, 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 267 


realizing it, listened eagerly that she might understand 
and be worthy of his confidence. 

“ In six months we’d have the shops so promising that 
none would care to sell stock. They’d all want to buy. 
But six months is a long time.” 

Clare stared at the table thoughtfully. Then she 
smiled. 

“If I were only in a story book,” she said, looking up at 
him, “I would sacrifice myself, and marry a man with 
money, and turn it all over to you.” 

“Money wouldn’t help now, I’m afraid,” he said, his 
mind concentrated on business. “They’ve too big a 
start.” 

“What will you do?” 

“Something will happen.” Gilbert’s face glowed with 
new confidence. “Something must happen now.” 

At that moment, as if in answer to his remark, some- 
thing did happen. The door opened and a man entered, 
unannounced. He was short, with a figure like a care- 
lessly rolled wad, over which hung a frock coat that looked 
as if it had never met a tailor’s iron since it was made. 
A diamond shirt stud sparkled in the opening of his tan- 
colored waistcoat, and he wore russet shoes. A cigar 
was stuck in his narrow mouth; his hair was black and 
greasy; and a large, flat nose squatted in the middle of 
his full, clean-shaven face. Gilbert noticed all these 
things after he had glanced at the visitor’s bright, shifty 
eyes. 

The man looked from one to the other with an ill-bred, 
knowing smile. 

“Mr. Gilbert?” he asked, in a tone which was on the 


268 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


border line between deference and arrogance. Receiving 
an affirmative nod for an answer, he came forward with a 
card in his outstretched hand. As Gilbert glanced at it 
he perceptibly stiffened. 

“ Well, Mr. Conlin?” he asked. 

“D’ye want me to talk before the lady?” The visitor 
jerked his thumb toward Miss Hardy. 

“Of course,” said Gilbert, not looking at Clare Hardy, 
who had pushed her chair back, and who was watching 
the two men with frank curiosity. 

“All right.” But the man shifted his feet uneasily. 
“This shop ain’t payin’ its men enough,” he began, 
plunging his hands deep into his trousers pockets and 
jerking his head back defiantly. “It keeps men after 
hours. It puts men off their regular jobs and onto others. 
It discharges them when it takes the notion or when a 
new automatic machine crowds ’em out. All but about 
a hundred o’ yer men are union men, and the union’s 
decided, through me, to get these things adjusted. 
You’re a union man yerself, Mister Gilbert. Ye know 
me and ye know the union rules.” 

“Yes, I know you. You’re the worst thing I know 
about the union,” drawled Gilbert, a dangerous smile on 
his lips. “If the men have any definite grievance I’ll 
fix it if I can. But I don’t believe they have one, and, 
what’s more, I don’t believe you can make them think 
they have one. If you haven’t anything else to say — 
Good-morning, Conlin.” 

Gilbert turned once more to Miss Hardy, whose look 
was unfortunately one of open amusement. Conlin saw the 
look and felt the contemptuousness of Gilbert’s speech. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


269 


“PH have something more to say, Mister Gilbert, and 
soon, too,” he said. Then he turned and strutted out, 
his anger swelling him up like a turkey cock. 

Clare Hardy watched him out of sight, her body sway- 
ing unconsciously with his, her face wrinkled with re- 
pressed laughter. 

“ Isn’t he absurd? What will he do?” she asked. 

Gilbert was staring past her at the blank side wall. 

“ Oh, he’ll probably excommunicate me from the 
union,” he said. “And he’ll try to call a strike, which ’ll 
be the last blow to our opposition.” 

The last words came more slowly, as if the speaker was 
thinking of something else. His face took on the dreamy 
look she had noticed before, when he was thinking deeply. 
Then she saw light suddenly flash in his eyes. He jumped 
to his feet and paced up and down before her. 

“That’s it,” he said over and over to himself, paying 
no attention to her. “That’s it.” 

It was very trying to Clare Hardy’s woman’s curiosity, 
this oracular, indefinite statement. 

“What’s it?” she asked. 

Gilbert started, called to himself once more, and flung 
himself, boyishly enthusiastic, into the chair. 

“The first ray of light I’ve had in weeks,” he cried. 
Then, as he saw the alert surprise and sympathy on the 
face opposite him — the face, near now, that, far away and 
indistinct, had gone with him throughout the struggle — 
he stopped suddenly and leaned toward her. “And you 
brought it to me.” 

Her face flushed suddenly, but it grew sober and dis- 
appointed as he went on. 


270 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“Will you come again to-morrow? I want to think 
about it, and the shop’s a-calling me now.” 

Their eyes met for a short second. 

“I’ll do whatever you say,” she said. 

Gilbert turned quickly and pushed one of the buttons 
that studded the president’s desk. 

“Send Jimmy O’Rourke here,” he told the boy who 
answered. Miss Hardy waited, curiously, near the door 
that led down to the street, but Gilbert seemed to have 
forgotten her. 

“Jimmy,” he said, when the boy appeared, “did you 
see the man who was here a few minutes ago?” 

“De guy wid the sparkler? Yessir.” 

“See Peter and get hold of that hackman he told us 
about. Find out if this is the man. Then keep your 
eye on him until I tell you to quit. His name is Conlin.” 

“All right, sir.” Jimmy slammed the door behind him, 
as if to signify immediate action. And Gilbert turned 
awkwardly to Miss Hardy. 

“It sounds very thrilling,” was all she said as she 
turned to go. 

When he had relieved the draughtsman, who was still 
waiting in his office, Gilbert walked through the shops 
with an elation he could scarcely have analyzed. All the 
straggling, disorganized forces of him seemed to marshal 
themselves into line, and the gentle voice of command 
that ordered them now was her voice. As he opened the 
first door, however, and the choppy waves of metallic 
sound broke over him from the grimy, seething sea of 
activity within, he put her out of his mind. An hour 
later, in the foundry, he came suddenly upon Mr. Conlin 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


271 


gesticulating and talking to a knot of workmen. As 
Gilbert appeared they separated quickly, as if impulsively 
ashamed. Then they stood by, interested in the contest 
between the two men. Gilbert quietly ordered them 
back to work, and they went, hesitatingly looking at 
Conlin for other orders. 

“ I’ll give you just one minute to get out of here, and 
I warn you not to come back,” he said to the agitator. 

Conlin squared off, his arms akimbo, defiantly. The 
minute passed quickly and the two men still faced each 
other. Gilbert snapped his watch-case and seized the 
agitator unexpectedly, by the collar with one hand and 
with the other by the trousers, where the tight frock- 
coat sprung open at the rear. Conlin struggled ostenta- 
tiously as he was marched roughly out of the door, 
through the yard and out of the gate, which the gateman 
opened for them wonderingly. Gilbert released him, 
turned without a word, and the gate clanged behind him. 
Conlin smiled malevolently and walked off, lighting a 
cigar. He was a martyr now. That would help him 
more than hours of his clever talk. Meanwhile Gilbert, 
in the mills once more, sensed the first organized oppo- 
sition he had felt in the shops since he had become 
superintendent, and he began to distrust his hold on the 
men. In an hour the insidious poison of the walking 
delegate’s tongue had undermined much of his work of 
many months, until he felt it tumbling about him in 
ruin. And when the machinists came back to work in 
the afternoon — the most skilled, most intelligent workmen 
in the building — he saw them talking together, some ex- 
citedly, others more calmly, shaking their heads. All 


272 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


day the spirit of insurrection grew throughout the mills, 
that, Saturday, had been contented in their compact 
organization under his leadership. Uneasiness was every- 
where, meeting him in covert glances; antagonism, grow- 
ing and bitter; and the work became shiftless, half- 
hearted. Only a few bent stolidly over their machines, 
listening to the whirring, grating message of progress 
and peace, while in the rooms where cheap day labor was 
employed, his appearance was the signal for sudden fore- 
boding silence, that would break into a babel of many 
tongues and passions when he had gone. They were not 
union men, but they scented trouble, and they liked it. 
When the whistle blew Gilbert watched them hurry out 
in long, straggling lines, and with heavy heart he noticed 
the absurd but menacing figure of Conlin sauntering 
down to meet them. As he turned from the window, he 
saw a familiar figure at the door, and smiled a weary 
welcome to it. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” 

It was Heffler, with his usual good-night. 

“Nothing, thank you, Joe.” 

But the man came forward, handed him a paper, and, 
touching his hat, went out and down the stairs. On the 
paper were noted the time and place of three union 
meetings to be held that night. 

Gilbert threaded his way through the motley crowd 
that was hurrying homeward; old men hobbling along, 
backs bent, as if by the weight of the empty dinner- 
pails; younger men elbowing their way forward in noisy, 
good-humored groups; boys, their faces daubed and their 
arms swinging with the swagger of their bodies, furtively 


r 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 273 


glancing from right to left to see if everyone realized that 
they were men and worked in the shops; tired-looking 
women gossiping, in voices which were made to be heard 
above the crash of machinery, about the clothes of a large, 
puffing woman whom a conductor and the inspector were 
helping into a trolley car; clerks, flowers faded in the 
buttonholes of their stylishly cut clothes — which often 
made whole groups look like ill-assorted twins and triplets, 
because Brown the clothier had sold forty suits of the 
same material for ten dollars each — but jaunty still, as 
they smirked smugly at pretty typewriter girls, who 
giggled and simpered and wriggled forward laboriously, 
their skirts bound and held tightly about them; an occa- 
sional lawyer, gesticulating as he talked; a doctor, his 
arms folded pompously over a broad, white waistcoat, 
one foot on the step of his carriage waiting for the other, 
as he gave his opinions on the weather with the same 
patronizing certainty he used when diagnosing diseases; 
all turned toward home, the peaceful place where they 
ate and slept and had arguments, usually gentle, and 
made resolutions, usually good; where they had occa- 
sional lapses into youthful sentiment which they hid 
carefully, and so made more delightful the place of 
which they said unconsciously but whole-heartedly, “God 
bless it.” 

“Good people; good, funny people,” said Gilbert to 
himself, as now and then he answered noisy greetings 
and waves of the hand. 

“Sorry ye wouldn’t let us put ye up for mayor,” 
shouted Mr. Tubb, the grocery man, who was always 
ready to express various political opinions to his cus- 


274 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


tomers — various in that they invariably coincided with 
those of the man he was serving. Once, it was said, two 
of his best patrons, of opposite political faith, entering 
the store together, had purposely caught him off his 
guard. And, after sputtering and growing very red, and 
brushing imaginary dust from his long apron, he had 
suddenly heard an inaudible call from the rear of the 
store and had rushed off and hidden in his little partitioned 
office. There he had remained all day, peeking through the 
glass window, and trying to figure out how he could prove 
that both parties were right without showing that both 
were also wrong. 

“It was over-confidence for you to think of it,” drawled 
Gilbert. “ Who are you going to put up to-night, Tubb? ” 

The groceryman bent over an empty barrel to hide his 
embarrassment. 

“Well,” he called defiantly after the tall man, “Pd 
rather have you than either of ’em.” 

Gilbert found Mr. Butterson in front of his Universal 
Emporium, studying with obvious approval and pride 
the big, newly decorated windows of his three adjoining 
stores. Mr. Butterson was ready to start homeward, 
and together they walked up West Hill, talking earnestly. 
Gilbert turned in at the gate of the old house. He had 
promised to dine with Billy that night. 

The elder McNish occupied the greater part of the din- 
ner hour with comments on the roominess of the big house, 
and the littleness and loneliness of two mere men who 
attempted to occupy it. After dinner he went upstairs, 
and the two younger men, smoking, drifted naturally to 
the broad veranda and the cool dusk of the approaching 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 275 


night. Billy was very talkative and Gilbert listened 
silently. 

“Glad you’re living, eh Billy?” he remarked at last. 

“Rather,” grinned Billy. For a time he sat looking 
thoughtfully across the well-groomed lawn, and he smiled 
as he thought. “I’m a funny mess, Jack, inside. Why 
am I glad I’m living? I’ll tell you. For four days I’ve 
been going around with my chest out, and everybody 
patting my back to keep it there. Every little while I go 
out on the street so as to see people point at me and hear 
them say, 1 That’s Captain McNish, who’s up for mayor.’ 
In the office I keep the window up, and I sit beside it all 
the time so that people can see me. I know it’s idiotic, 
but I can’t help it. I like it and I want more. It’s 
like a man with a fever who wants water. He’s ready 
to drown in it. That’s what I enlisted for, time of the 
war, so’s to wear the uniform and strut around. I 
didn’t want to fight, Lord no; I just wanted to come 
home and show my shoulder straps. Asinine, isn’t it? 
And do you know what I’ve thought about most since 
the caucus? The election? No. The great things to 
do for the city? No. The campaign? No. I’ve been 
thinking how bully it ’ll be if I can go down to New 
Haven next Commencement, and show the people I 
know down there and the fellows that come back the 
Mayor of Hampstead. And I’m thirty-two years old, 
Jack Gilbert, think of that.” He hesitated, a look half 
wistful, half humorous, on his face. “But I can’t help 
it. It was born in me like a drunkard’s thirst.” 

“I guess we’re all a good deal like that,” drawled 
Gilbert, smiling affectionately at his friend, “Every 


276 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


time we hear a band play we'd like to think it's for 
us.” 

‘‘Oh, yes; you and the rest can take a drink of approval 
now and then and it won't hurt you, but I've got to be 
on a continuous spree or be unhappy. By the way,” 
he turned suddenly on Gilbert, “you haven’t told me 
why you happened to descend on that meeting the 
way you did.” 

It was Gilbert's turn to look off toward the lawn and 
the hedge beyond. 

“I came directly from Miss Hardy,” he said. “She 
told me and asked me to fix it up.” 

“She did that!” cried Billy with sudden enthusiasm. 
Then he caught a glimpse of Gilbert's face and stopped 
short, for it had a hard look of repressed pain. “ Well, 
you certainly did the business, you sober old fossil,” 
he added in the lightest tone he could muster, “but it 
was a mistake. You're worth ten of me.” 

“Rot, Billy. You’re talking through the same hat 
you were when you said you weren’t thinking about 
the great things you had to do for the city. You’ve 
the biggest chance in years right there.” 

“Jack,” said Billy suddenly, “I wish you could run my 
campaign. I don’t know what to do, and Moriarty '11 
grind it out in the same old way. I've got to get some 
grip in it or it '11 be a flat failure.” 

“I'll do what I can, Billy, but I’m likely to be kept 
mighty busy. I've a strike on my hands. That's the 
latest.” 

“A strike at the shops?” 

Jack nodded. “There's a fat and oily person named 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


277 


Conlin, who’s come all the way from New Haven to 
tell the men that they don’t know their own business. 
He may get ’em out. They’ll float out on the streams 
of his oratory. But they won’t stay out long and he 
won’t stay in town long unless I’m mistaken.” 

There was a fierce light in Gilbert’s eye that Billy had 
never seen before, and a solid, dangerous look about his 
jaw, although his mouth was smiling. Shortly they 
started down town together and parted at the corner 
by the bank, where Billy turned to the left, bound for 
the little Hampstead Club building where he expected to 
hear, in congenial surroundings, of the opposing caucus. 

“ Where are you going?” he asked. 

“To attend three union meetings, and to try to prove 
to the men that New Haven can’t get along without Con- 
lin any longer, that the state metropolis is in dreary 
desolation and that it’s their duty as citizens to buy him 
a return ticket.” 

“Isn’t it dangerous?” said Billy doubtfully. “They 
might do anything.” 

Gilbert shook his head smilingly. 

“It’s a pretty good world,” he said. “There aren’t 
half as many people who want to shoot you and sandbag 
you as the newspapers try to make you think there are.” 

It was a duel that night between Mr. Conlin and Jack 
Gilbert. When the portly Irishman reached the hotel 
victorious, some time after midnight, he was wiping the 
perspiration from his face. He looked around furtively, 
as if he still feared the presence of the big man, who 
had trailed him from meeting to meeting and who had 
made him use every trick, every argument, every threat 


278 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


he knew to win a half-reluctant vote from the men. 
Then he shook his head as he looked back at the short 
struggle. He had thought before the first — machinist's — 
meeting that he was certain of a unanimous following. 
The hot-heads, whose work had been arranged before- 
hand, had been arguing with the doubtful ones before 
the meeting began, when suddenly the big-bodied super- 
intendent had entered and had instantly coalesced the 
opposition. It wasn't so much what he said, Conlin 
agreed, for he talked simply and straight from the shoul- 
der, nor was it the way he said it, for the man was no 
speaker. It was the man himself, fearless, powerful, 
earnest, honest, that had forced Conlin to rally every 
faculty to stave off defeat. 

Gilbert had laid great emphasis on his own personal 
relations with the men. They knew, he said, that he 
would do the square thing by them if they did the square 
thing by him. After Conlin, in a burst of his best rhetoric, 
had denounced capital and had told the men the old 
story of their woes, the large young man had asked 
calmly, with a smile of ridicule that made the Irishman 
double his fists till the nails bit into the flesh, what all 
that had to do with this particular case. His fists 
doubled again now as he remembered how he, Conlin, 
had forced them into line one after another, by threats 
and cajoling; as he remembered the bitter insults that 
Jethro and Grady and others of his aids had helped him 
to heap upon the young man, who stood smiling good- 
humoredly at them, breaking the force of their blows 
with quiet sarcasm or ridiculing silence; and as he re- 
membered how, when the vote was taken and when the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 279 


strike was affirmed and when Gilbert had been expelled 
from the union for disloyalty, the young man had turned 
on his heel and walked out, leaving a few jeering and 
the rest shaken. The other two meetings had been 
easier, for the news of the first victory had given his 
workers heart and had placed Gilbert, the outsider, on 
the defensive. But now, as Conlin sat in his room, star- 
ing at a picture of Lincoln that was hung by chance in 
the midst of a background of forget-me-not wall paper, 
two or three sentences rang in his ears: 

“Pm as good a union man as any of you, and the worst 
of us is better than this man who tells you to strike. 
For we’re honest and he isn’t.” 

“ Whether you follow the crack of his whip or not, I’ll 
show you the kind of man he is before I’m done with 
him.” 

Mr. Conlin’s fingers trembled slightly as he lit a cigar. 
For a moment he was sorry he had left New Haven. 
He was a trifle afraid of the big young man. Then he 
thought of the reward that would be his if he won, and, 
like the hen and many men, he began to count the eggs 
of his hopes as if they were already hatched. 

Meanwhile Gilbert was across the square, sitting, his 
long legs crossed, in the box-like car of Mr. Tubb’s night- 
lunch wagon, and talking with Mr. Peter Lumpkin. 


CHAPTER XVII 


TO DRIVE DULL CARE AWAY 


A LTHOUGH it was long after midnight when Gilbert 
l\ finally went upstairs to bed, he was up at an 
earlier hour than usual in the morning. His 
mother, working in the kitchen, heard him out in the 
narrow garden at the back. He was muttering away, in 
his unmusical bass, one of Mrs. Gilbert's old songs. Now 
and then she caught a word or two, emphasized as he 
bent over the rows of red salvia that ran along the edge 
of the garden. 

" There ne’er was a flower in garden or bower 
Like auld Joe Nicolson’s bonnie Nannie.” 

Mrs. Gilbert smiled as she hummed the words with 
him, and beat out with her foot the time of the simple 
tune. Then she stopped suddenly, wondering. She 
couldn't remember ever hearing him sing that kind of 
a song before. Usually it was “ Down Among the Dead 
Men,” or “It's Always Fair Weather,” or something 
equally mannish. What possessed the lad to be sing- 
ing a sentimental love ballad? Her face grew grave 
with motherly intuition. 

When Gilbert passed the Hardy house on his way to 
the shop, he guiltily hid as much as he could of a large 
280 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 281 


bunch of salvia behind his burly form. At the office 
he tried to keep the flowers out of the office boys’ sight. 
As he arranged the red blossoms on “the old man’s” 
open desk he swore to himself that he was a sentimental 
fool — and glad of it. Then he went to the window to 
see if she was coming, although it was not yet eight 
o’clock and he did not expect her until nine. 

What did he care what happened to the noisy, sordid 
machine that called to him raspingly, or for the misled, 
grimy men who changed from friends to foes in a day, 
or for the stubborn political fight just ahead? She 
was coming out of the dahlias and the chrysanthemums 
of the old garden. Coming with the ineffably tender 
look in her dark eyes (he wondered if he could meet 
their glance without crying out). Coming with the 
old tantalizing sweet smile on her lips that curled like 
the heart of a rose out of the more faintly colored outer 
petals (he wondered if he could see that smile without 
telling her how he loved it). Coming with the dark, wavy 
hair whose perfume went to his head as he thought of 
it (he wondered if he could keep his big, ugly hands 
from smoothing the hair and holding the dear head so 
that it could never escape him). Coming to-day, com- 
ing now, perhaps coming to-morrow and afterwards for 
a time. Then she would go away (he wondered if he 
could ever let her go, for somehow everything seemed 
suddenly hollow and empty at the thought of it). Yes, 
she would go but she would leave something, a rose 
or a song or a look, that could not be forgotten. But 
he would not think of that. She was coming, coming 
to him. And what was he except that he loved her? 


282 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


The old shadow returned. He, with no graces, no 
learning, no anything; he, a failure in the only struggle 
he had ever made; he was playing the mad fool merely 
because she was so prodigal of her sweetness that she 
had let him breathe it for a few happy moments. Never 
mind. She was coming. There was Billy, of course. 
She really loved Billy. But Billy couldn’t have her 
to-day, and she couldn’t stop him from loving her to- 
day or any other day. Why think of it? She must 
be on her way by now. He was sure that he could sing 
splendidly, that he could be a poet or a painter or any of 
the wonderful, impossible things that he used to dream 
of as a boy. Now she must be turning the corner. A 
light step came dancing up the stairs outside. She was 
here. 

When she entered he was gazing out of the window, 
singing to himself with monstrous indifference. But he 
could not have said what words he was singing or indeed 
that he was singing at all. He was listening to the 
sound of her footsteps and trying to be very calm. She 
came directly to him and rested her hand lightly for a 
mere second upon his arm; and, during that second, he 
knew how sad everybody else in the world must be in 
comparison with him. He seemed so close to her that 
he held his breath, so that it might not check the tingling 
passion that ran through him. 

“ You’re not a bit disheartened.” It was her voice. 

Unconsciously he heaved a deep sigh. The hand 
had dropped from his arm. 

“Oh, you’ve come,” he said solemnly, but with humor- 
ously evident insincerity. He felt somehow that he 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 283 


ought to look at her, but when he turned he stared past 
her at the opposite wall. 

“ Disheartened? What about?” he asked. He only 
knew that she was there beside him, and that she was 
wearing black and red as she had on the night of the 
Fourth of July. His view toward the wall included her 
slender, tapering arm. 

“ That’s like you. Just as if you hadn’t a trouble in 
the world.” The arm disappeared suddenly and, like 
a magnet, it drew him. 

“I haven’t. They all went when you came,” he 
declared fervently. He had followed her to the desk 
where she bent over the red flowers. 

“ Pretty speech and pretty flowers,” she cried, glancing 
back at him, her black eyes dancing; and he suddenly 
felt giddy and exhilarated, as if he had been lifted to 
some great height where the air was light and the sun 
was shining very brightly. 

“We have a very susceptible office boy,” he drawled, 
scarcely knowing what he said. “He fell in love with 
you at first sight months ago, and has been languishing 
ever since in bitter and hopeless despair. Not wishing 
to break his young and tender heart, I allowed him to 
decorate your desk.” 

“An office boy?” She leaned forward in the swinging 
chair and forced him to look at her. “Did he say any- 
thing about me?” 

“Oh, yes,” he went on desperately. “He’s wonderful 
with adjectives. He said that— that you were very 
beautiful, you know, and — that you were almighty kind 
to everybody, and that ” 


284 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


There was a slight hesitant pause. 

“ Wonderful office boy,” said Miss Hardy, flushing. 
“I’d like to know him. I’d like to hear him say other 
things like that.” 

There was a knock at the door, and Jimmy O’Rourke 
hurled himself into the room with his customary haste. 
He stopped short when he saw the girl. 

“Man to see ye, sir.” The boy looked from Gilbert 
to Miss Hardy and grinned knowingly. 

“Come here, Jimmy,” said Gilbert severely. The boy 
came closer and, looking up at the manager, he was 
amazed to see the big man’s right eye wink ostenta- 
tiously at him. 

“ Where did you get these flowers you brought for Miss 
Hardy?” Gilbert’s eye did not leave the boy’s face. 
Jimmy tentatively patted one worn shoe with the other 
and screwed his lips in thought. 

“I stole ’em,” he said at last, but his freckled face 
showed no trace of shame. 

“You’ve always liked Miss Hardy very much, haven’t 
you, Jimmy?” the stern voice went on. Jimmy flushed 
uneasily. He didn’t consider it manly to express his 
affections, and to be forced to express those he had 
never carefully considered seemed childish. He glanced 
shyly at Miss Hardy. 

“Yessir,” he said decisively. 

“You don’t remember anything you’ve said about 
her except that she was a — beautiful and — a — kind, do 
you?” Gilbert was keeping a sober face with difficulty. 
Jimmy looked up under his eyebrows, his mouth open 
in wonder. 





4 1 1 I stole 'em, 


he snid at last. 


5 






















































THE BALANCE OF POWER 285 


“No, sir,” he said truthfully enough. 

Clare Hardy smiled and held out her hand to the boy. 

“Thank you for the flowers,” she said. “I like you, 
too.” 

Jimmy took the hand hesitatingly, grinned sheep- 
ishly and then, to Miss Hardy's merriment and Gilbert’s 
confusion, he turned his head and winked twice at the 
general manager. Gilbert caught him by the shoulders. 

“Did he tell you his name?” he asked shortly. 

For a second Jimmy thought it was another of the 
series of questions. Then he remembered. 

“It’s him, Conlin,” he said in an almost sepulchral 
whisper. 

“Tell him I don’t care to see him.” Gilbert led the 
boy to the door. When it had closed and they were 
alone again, he moved quickly toward the window, his 
hand smoothing his chin, and looked out. Clare Hardy, 
her lips twitching, toyed with a paper cutter on the 
desk. He turned after a minute and her eyes were 
raised to meet his. Then they laughed. 

“Jimmy is certainly wonderful with adjectives,” she 
said. But the mention of Conlin had cast a shadow 
upon them. 

“You haven’t told me what you did last night,” she 
said, suddenly sober. 

“There isn’t much to tell. Conlin proved to the 
men that I was the most dangerous thief and murderer 
at large. They sputtered and called names and shook 
their fists and generally enjoyed themselves.” 

“ But what did they do?” 

“They ” Gilbert stopped suddenly and listened. 


286 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


The multifarious noise of machinery had grown fainter. 
They heard the squeaking, dying wail of the shafting 
after the power is taken away. The pulsing beat of 
hammers stopped short. From outside came a straggling 
shout as of boys when school is out. “ That’s what they 
did,” Gilbert said significantly. 

Instantly all was hubbub in the outer office. Chairs 
scraped, windows were thrown up, and a confusion of 
many voices hummed incessantly. 

“Let me go with you,” she cried as he started toward 
the door. He smiled and shook his head. 

“I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Miss Hardy went to the window and looked out at 
the yard. A phalanx of grimy men and boys with 
dinner pails were hurrying by, some capering and hoot- 
ing, some swaggering self-consciously as if on parade, 
some talking and gesticulating, some plodding along 
stolidly. She saw them all, following the lead of 
those in front, look at the awkward giant, his head 
bared and the wind ruffling his thick hair, who had 
at the moment appeared from the door beneath her. 
She watched him as he passed them, waving his hand 
to them and calling a few by name. 

“You’re going the wrong way, boys,” she heard him 
call, and, following his gaze, she saw some of the men 
nod their heads anxiously, and stop to look after him 
until they were carried on by the rush from behind 
them. But she shuddered slightly and her face flushed 
with anger as she saw many sneer and heard derisive 
shouts, and as she saw a few swarthy-faced men, when 
he had passed and could not see them, turn and shake 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 287 


their fists at his back. And behind them all, like a 
shepherd driving his sheep, came Conlin, grinning malig- 
nantly at Gilbert, who ignored him. She turned from 
him in disgust, and watched the tall man meet a little 
group that remained as if undecided what to do, and 
then she saw them follow the others more slowly and 
reluctantly. Soon they were all gone and he, with a 
short, white-haired man, had disappeared in the building 
beyond. 

She waited an almost interminable time, as it seemed 
to her. Then, impatience and curiosity overcoming her, 
she turned the handle of the door and looked cautiously 
into the outer office. It was empty. Evidently he had 
told them to go, along with the others. The silence 
was sepulchral after all the clamor. She started when 
a door slammed somewhere below. She was suddenly 
very lonesome and she wished that he would hurry. 
Then her eye caught sight of his name in small black 
letters on a door beyond, and, alert with surreptitious 
discovery, she tiptoed across the desolate office and 
entered his little room. 

With a throb of delight she shut the door behind her. 
The flat-topped desk was piled high with papers in wire 
baskets, and at the back against the wall was a thick 
roll of blue prints. An inkwell, a case of penholders 
and a corncob pipe lay, like straggling islands, upon the 
blue of the broad blotter, leather encased. A plain filing 
case stood in one corner, and in another was a pile of 
what looked like junk to Miss Hardy, stray machine 
parts and tools thrown together there until he could 
find the time to deal with them. Directly before the 


288 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


little window, and just far enough away for a pair of 
very long legs to reach, was an old racked armchair. 
Miss Hardy crossed the room and sat down in it. She 
looked at the distance to the window sill and shook 
her head with twinkling eyes. On the walls were two 
large maps of the world traced with broad, colored lines, 
a tinted picture of a steamship and a large calendar, 
with an old man fishing above the lines of figures. 

Two months before, Miss Hardy would have felt that 
this simple, unordered office was offensively plain, offen- 
sively careless, offensively lacking in any indication of 
taste. She would have criticised it, and the man who 
occupied it, unmercifully. This morning she noticed 
merely that its eastern window made the room warm 
and friendly, and she said to herself that everything in 
the place suggested a strong man. 

She returned to the desk. It was here that he had 
worked during these last disquieting, discouraging 
months. She curled herself up in the swinging chair, 
and, tilting backward, she rested one flushed cheek against 
the chair back. Then, suddenly remembering that he 
might come at any moment and find her there, she 
slipped from the chair and stood facing the door, expect- 
ing him, woman-like, as soon as the thought entered her 
head. She would never have forgiven herself if he had 
caught her in his room and in his chair, but in her heart 
she wished him to know that she had been there. She 
caught up one of his blunt stub pens and impulsively 
scratched a single line across the blue blotter, a line 
that had recurred to her whenever she had thought of 
him during the last few weeks. Then she tiptoed out, 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 289 


closing the door quietly behind her, and hurried across 
to the president’s office. When he returned he found 
her sitting where he had left her, thumbing the leaves 
of a business directory. 

“I guess we’ll go home now,” he said. 

She liked his saying that. Together they went down 
the creaking stairs, and at his suggestion she laughingly 
turned the lock in the outer door. A small boy, playing 
a harmonica, stopped and eyed them curiously as they 
turned away, the tall, broad-shouldered man and the 
radiant girl. A few minutes later the boy seated him- 
self on the steps they had left and, evidently inspired 
by the silent mills behind him, he played “ Every Day’ll 
be Sunday By and By,” with reckless regard for every- 
thing except rhythm, which he beat with one foot as he 
played. 

Gilbert spent the afternoon alone at the shop. Much 
of the time he was at his desk, his big body sprawled in 
the swinging chair, his thick hair tousled, and a dreamy, 
far-away look in his gray eyes, that made his homely 
face with its broad-bridged nose and its heavy protrud- 
ing jaw seem incongruously boyish. In moments of 
sudden energy he scratched or erased rough notes on a 
yellow pad before him, until the paper looked, as he 
remarked to himself, like a Chinese laundry ticket. 
When the growing darkness at last broke in upon his 
reverie he tore the sheet from the pad and stowed it 
away carefully in an inner pocket, although every letter 
and figure upon it was clear in his mind. Then he took 
the blotter from its case and, wrapping it, as most men 
wrap parcels, into an ugly but unnecessarily solid bundle, 


290 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


he let himself out into the night, the paper about the old 
blue blotter crackling under his arm. 

He was late in reaching the big house that night, and 
conversation, with the little group of men who were await- 
ing him, halted temporarily after they had commented 
upon every phase of September weather for all the years 
they could remember. Gilshannon of the News was there. 
Billy had found him searching for Gilbert and had 
brought him in to wait with the others. 

The pause in the talk was only momentary. To argue 
is as necessary to a New Englander as to eat and to 
sleep. By nature he rejoices in the opposite side of 
every question, and he prefers broad, general questions 
of which he knows only what the daily paper tells him. 
If he is alone he will argue with himself, and often he 
will prove to himself that he is wrong and that the argu- 
ment by which he proves it is faulty. When these men 
found that they differed on the labor question, naturally 
uppermost in their minds at the moment, they glared 
at each other pleasantly. They dabbed at it as a cat 
will dab at a choice morsel, and played with it, and finally 
jumped at it eagerly. 

It was the one question about which the kindly Mr. 
McMish could be angry, and he therefore rejoiced in it 
and sat forward on the edge of his chair, his shoulders 
straight, his gray beard sticking out almost horizontally 
from his set chin. Colonel Mead leaned back philo- 
sophically in a broad Morris chair, but his hand that lay 
on the chair arm was doubled up. On the broad lounge 
opposite sat Billy McNish and Gilshannon, the latter, 
as usual, eager to talk. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 291 


“ That’s just it,” he said, eyeing Mr. McNish aggres- 
sively. “Who’s to say what pay the workingmen are 
worth? The man that hires them? Nonsense. You know 
as well as I do that he’ll hire them as cheaply as he can, 
and never pay them any more than he can help. He’ll 
squeeze the life blood out of them, and when they’re 
dry he’ll turn them out, old and without a penny, 
for they’ve never had more than a scrimping, living 
wage.” 

“What’s yer scheme, then?” asked the Colonel sar- 
castically. “Turn over to the rabble the shops you’ve 
put yer money and brains into? That ’d be like openin’ 
the gates of a stockade and tyin’ yer hands when ye 
see the Injuns cornin’!” 

“Who’s the rabble?” asked Gilshannon, rejoicing in 
this turn of the argument. “A number of men combine 
a lot of money and build a factory. What per cent, do 
they want for it? Four, five, six? Not at all. They 
want ten, fifteen, twenty per cent., every penny they 
can screw out of it. That’s business. Now the laboring 
men combine a lot of labor. What wages do they want? 
Two dollars a day? No, three or four or five dollars, 
as much as they can get. That’s business. It’s a fight 
between the two, that’s all. The owners cleverly circum- 
vent laws or have new ones made to get their ends. 
The ignorant workingmen sometimes take the franker 
way — the only way they know — of breaking the laws. 
It’s intelligent selfishness and brutality versus ignorant 
selfishness and brutality.” 

Mr. McNish arose and strode up and down to calm 
himself. 


292 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ We’re all going to the merry bow-wows/’ remarked 
Billy disconsolately, as he winked at the Colonel. 

“Do you believe in the Bible, Mr. Gilshannon?” Mr. 
Me Nish asked solemnly as he sat down again. 

“I can’t say that I do.” The young man shook the 
ashes from his cigarette nonchalantly. “It always has 
seemed to me that ever since Columbus proved that the 
world was round, Heaven has been flat.” 

“Anyone would know you’re a Harvard man,” Billy 
said in a tone of feigned awe. 

Gilshannon nodded. 

“And anyone would know you’re not,” he retorted. 

“Why?” 

“ Because you haven’t expressed a single vigorous 
opinion.” 

Billy smiled with appreciation. He took the cigarette 
Gilshannon offered him, after patting congratulations on 
the reporter’s back. 

“But what’s yer scheme,” the Colonel asked, “or 
doesn’t yer contract call for buildin’ anythin’ after ye 
tear it all down?” 

“Give them all an equal chance,” said Gilshannon 
readily, “educate them and ” 

“Educate them?” cried Mr. McNish, breaking out 
suddenly. “Yes, we pay taxes and educate their sons 
so that they’ll shake their fists under the noses of our 
own boys. I tell you, Mr. Gilshannon, there’ll always be 
‘ hewers of wood and drawers of water’; there’ll always 
be class distinction. Education don’t change a man’s 
blood nor his heart. And I’ll tell you another thing: 
a mob is a mob. That’s no theory nor a sentence full 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 293 


of long words. I helped to meet one of the worst mobs 
this country ever saw and I know what I’m talking 
about. While they were killing defenseless women and 
children in the Draft Riots of ’63, there were a lot of men 
like you who stood around and talked — copper-heads 
we called ’em. The police tried their clubs and the 
militia shot over the heads of the mob. It only made ’em 
worse. Then we came up, a handful of us, just from 
fighting an army we were proud even to run away from. 
It wasn’t any holiday or tin-soldier racket for us. When 
they saw us coming they laughed, and when our colonel 
told ’em to disperse they laughed, but after one volley 
of the kind the Johnnies had been standing against for 
three years, they didn’t laugh. We broke that riot 
because we shot to kill. And I tell you, many a time, 
to-day, when I walk along the streets of this town, 
which is better than most, I feel an itch for the old gun. 
Bayonet and bullet, I tell you,” added the thoroughly 
angered Mr. McNish. “ That’s the only way to handle a 
mob, and the politicians are afraid to use it.” 

Mr. McNish mopped his brow with a handkerchief. 

“Do you believe in the Bible, sir?” asked Gilshannon 
sternly, but his eyes were twinkling. 

“I do,” said Mr. McNish solemnly. “It was a mob 
that killed Him, and Pilate was afraid.” 

Gilshannon moved uneasily at the answer. Billy 
excused himself and went out into the broad hallway. 
A few moments later the Colonel, who, as if in envy of 
Mr. McNish’s story, had begun one of his own, was inter- 
rupted by a heavy stamping of feet on the veranda, and 
by the appearance of Gilbert, Billy hanging to his arm. 


294 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“I’ve been telling Jack about the ‘terrible mob’ and 
‘intelligent selfishness and brutality/” remarked Billy 
sweetly. 

Gilbert lit one of Mr. McNish’s cigars and sank into a 
large easy chair with a deep sigh of content. Then he 
smiled. 

“Have you mentioned Hardy & Son to-night?” he 
asked. 

Mr. McNish looked guilty and shamefaced; Gilshannon 
stared at the big fellow quizzically; and the Colonel shook 
his head. Gilbert laughed aloud. 

“ At three union meetings last night they scarcely spoke 
of it. The talk was capital in general versus labor in 
general, and it roiled them so much that they struck.” 
They laughed with him now, all except Gilshannon. 

“ But I take it we’ve got enough to tackle in what the 
News would call ‘the concrete situation.’ Did you want 
to see me, Gil?” Jack added, turning to the reporter. 

“ The News wants your opinion of the strike,” Gilshan- 
non said simply. 

“My opinion?” Gilbert laughed. “Nothing to say, 
Gil, for publication.” And all of Gilshannon’s plausible 
reasoning did not change his decision. 

“No, Gil,” he said. “There’s a lot I’ll say to you 
privately, but not one word to the News. 

The reporter rose and picked up his hat. 

“I’ll move on then,” he said. “I’d like to hear what 
you’ve got to say, but I’d better not. It might appear in 
the paper accidentally.” 

When the door had closed behind him Gilbert turned 
abruptly to Billy. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


295 


“Pll take on your campaign,” he said, “if you still 
want me to.” 

The Colonel interrupted before Billy had an opportu- 
nity to answer. 

“But ye can’t do it, boy, with all this other thing on 
yer shoulders.” 

“That’s what I said to Moriarty once when he was 
superintendent down at Hardy’s,” was Jack’s reply. “ It 
was about a machine. It don’t pay, Moriarty said then, 
for a Yankee to say that a thing can’t be done. The first 
thing he knows along comes some other fool Yankee and 
does it. Now, I’ve been puzzled about a good many 
things for the last six months, and all the time I’ve felt 
that there was one man back of them all. He never 
appears, and we’re apt to forget about him, but he’s 
there all the time, getting what he wants. He’s the man 
Billy’s really got to fight to be elected mayor, and he’s the 
man we’ve got to fight to save Hardy & Son. I propose 
that we join forces and go after him together. We’ve 
been fighting Brett and Merrivale and Strutt and some 
others down at the shop. And Billy is going to work 
against the whole Republican party at the polls. We’re 
banging away all over the place with shot-guns, and 
we aren’t hitting much of anything. Let’s pool our 
issues, buy a rifle, and aim it straight at Alonzo Hub- 
bard.” 

Mr. Me Nish shook his head slowly. Mr. Hubbard was 
one of the most highly respected citizens of Hampstead. 
He was a leader, morally, socially, and financially. The 
idea of conducting a campaign against him seemed ab- 
surd. Mr. McNish wondered if the worry had not unset- 


296 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


tied Gilbert’s judgment. Billy stared at the floor to 
avoid Jack’s glance. 

“ Sounds all right,” the Colonel remarked doubtfully. 
“But ’tain’t possible. Thar ain’t time anyhow.” The 
Colonel had entirely lost faith since the strike had been 
added to their troubles. 

As they might have known, if they had thought, Gil- 
bert was only made more stubborn by their opposition. 

“I think there is,” he said decisively, “although I wish 
it was a month instead of two weeks to election. You 
see, he’s made one big mistake. He’s back of one thing 
too many for his own good.” 

The trio looked up with frank inquiry on their faces. 

“He wanted to make Hardy stock cheap so that he 
could buy it for a mere song,” Gilbert went on, “and 
he hired a mighty poor man named Conlin to do it 
for him.” 

“Not the strike,” cried Billy. 

“You don’t mean to say that Mr. Hubbard ” 

started Mr. McNish. 

“Good Lord,” ejaculated the Colonel, “kin ye prove 
it? Do ye know it?” 

Gilbert smiled. He was enjoying their surprise. But 
he grew sober after a minute. 

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I can prove it and we’ll have 
more evidence later. But we’ve got to be quiet about it. 
The biggest card in Mr. Hubbard’s hand is that he keeps 
his mouth shut. We’re going to play his own card at him 
till we know where we stand. He’s making another mis- 
take that he mustn’t realize till the last minute. He 
hasn’t had the Street Railway Company build that short 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 297 


Broad Street line yet. That's due to be done three days 
after election. If it isn't done at that time the Council 
can withdraw the franchise. Of course he thinks he's 
going to own the new Council. Perhaps he will. And 
of course we want him to think he will." 

“But," interjected Mr. McNish doubtfully, “the Coun- 
cil wouldn’t take away the franchise without a good rea- 
son, would it, even if the franchise was a little one-sided?" 

Gilbert smoked rapidly for a few seconds as if he needed 
time to arrange his words. He was talking more volubly 
to-night than usual, and his tongue seemed to weary of the 
unaccustomed exercise. 

“It wasn’t straight," he said slowly, “the way they 
passed it. It seemed strange at the time, but they have 
a majority of one in the Council and we let it go as a 
straight party vote. It wasn't. I put the thing up to 
Butterson hard yesterday, and he told me that he and 
somebody else on their side voted against it, but promised 
them to vote for the secret ballot. Two of our men voted 
for that bill, and I think I know who one of them was. 
That's one of the things we've got to find out— who the 
men were and how much they were paid for doing it." 

“Paid?" cried Mr. McNish. “You don’t believe that 
Mr. Hubbard would bribe " 

“ Probably not directly. I don’t know, but I'm pretty 
sure it was done." 

“I don't believe it," declared Mr. McNish. 

The bell rang sharply and a moment later Mr. Peter 
Lumpkin appeared, resplendent again with his bird's-egg 
blue cravat, above which beamed his usual expansive 
smile. Behind him came Joe Heffler, eyes downcast, as 


298 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


meek and timid as Mr. Lumpkin was proprietary and 
hearty. 

“ Bless my soul,” ejaculated Mr. Lumpkin, as he greeted 
the group with vigorous hand-shaking, a proceeding that 
was trying to Mr. McNish’s aristocratic soul, “but I am 
glad to see you all. Mr. Gilbert here comes to me last 
night and he was sorely troubled, or words to that effect, 
and he asks me to come to-night. And I says to myself, 
‘ Peter/ says I, ‘he’s a jolly good fellow, and what’s more 
he’s in difficulties, and what’s more he’s bigger than you 
are. You’d better go and see if you can’t assist him in 
your simple, modest and unvarnished way.’ So I goes to 
Mr. Tubb and I tells him that my only son was dying in 
Tareville, — which was economizing the truth, gentlemen, 
seeing that your humble servant has never been bound 
by the holy ties of matrimony — and I asks, would he be 
willing to oblige me in my affliction by dispensing hot 
coffee and ham sandwiches to the hungry denizens of this 
enlightened metropolis for one evening only, event not to 
be repeated this season. And Mr. Tubb, who is a warm- 
hearted man, gentlemen, is at present adorned with my 
best white raiment, fresh from Raymond & Company’s 
steam laundry, occupying my humble station ” 

Gilbert had been talking in an undertone with Heffler, 
and he now turned to the Colonel with so quick a move- 
ment and with so much excitement that Mr. Lumpkin 
stopped in the middle of his explanation. 

“Of course,” Gilbert was saying. “Don’t you remem- 
ber, Colonel, that night at the church?” He hesitated. 
“ No, you were too far away. But I’ve been a blockhead. 
It’s Neely, of course it’s Neely.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


299 


“What’s Neely?” asked Billy. 

“Mr. Junius Brutus Neely, a fine Christian gentleman,” 
remarked Mr. Lumpkin. “A man with a vocabulary 
second only to Webster himself. Particularly proficient, 
I’ve noticed, in words beginning with d — destruction, 
damnation, downward and so forth and so forth ad 
libitum ” 

“And ad nauseam,” suggested Billy. 

Gilbert turned to Mr. Lumpkin. 

“You know him?” he asked. 

“Know him?” returned the night-lunch man. “Know 
him? As I’d know my own brother, if the fates had not 
destined me instead to the misfortune of sisters; as I’d 
know my own deeply lamented father, if he had not been 
consigned to the dust, a baker’s dozen of years ago. Many 
a time has he partaken of the justly renowned viands 
cooked, dished and served under my own personal super- 
vision. He has only one fault, gentlemen, and it is a 
good fault in the world filled with a ‘ superfluity of naugh- 
tiness,’ or words to that effect. He always asks after my 
immortal soul during his first sandwich. If he could only 
wait till the second, gentlemen, it would be much easier, 
much easier for me. But we all have our faults and ” 

“Lumpkin,” Gilbert broke in, with a nod to Joe Heffler, 
“Joe wants to talk to you privately. Can they use the 
library, Mr. McNish?” 

Mr. McNish assented and, with a courtesy that was 
exaggerated because it was forced, he showed the two 
visitors into the room across the broad hallway, and 
returned, closing the door behind him, disgust evident 
upon his face. 


300 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ They’re good fellows and good friends,” Gilbert said, 
meeting Mr. McNish’s questioning glance frankly. “ But 
Peter talks too easily to hear all we have to say. He 
wouldn’t mean to repeat a word, but his tongue runs 
away with him.” 

“Like most women,” remarked the Colonel. “Ye kin 
trust most every woman’s heart but ye can’t trust any 
woman’s tongue.” 

Gilbert took from his pocket the yellow sheet of paper 
with its hieroglyphics. 

“Colonel,” he said, “I want you and Mr. McNish to 
send a notice to all the Hardy stockholders, saying that 
the strike will not affect the concern. Tell ’em that the 
stock is worth par and more. Tell ’em you know a 
ridiculously small price is being offered, and that you 
want them to let you hear from them before they make 
any such mistake as to sell out. Tell ’em anything to 
make ’em hold their stock. Then I want you both to work 
with Butterson and that man from Tareville — he’ll prob- 
ably be here to-morrow — to get their indirect if not their 
open support. And, Colonel, I want you to put Mr. Tubb 
on your conscience. He mustn’t sell out to Hubbard.” 

The Colonel scowled at the grocer’s name and opened 
his mouth to reply. He evidently thought better of it, 
however, for he merely nodded. Mr. McNish, following 
the Colonel’s lead, bowed a dignified assent. 

“Billy,” Gilbert went on, “look up the records of that 
reservoir business. Get a fair valuation on the land they 
bought. Go to the bottom of the thing.” 

“All right,” Billy said genially. “Shan’t I see Mori- 
arty, too?” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 301 


“Yes,” Jack replied. “I forgot about that. I’ll look 
after the rest, with Joe’s help and Lumpkin’s and 
Jimmy’s.” 

“Who’s Jimmy?” asked Mr. McNish, in a tone which 
suggested relief that there was at least one democratic 
humiliation Gilbert had spared him. 

“Jimmy? Why, Jimmy O’Rourke, one of my office 
boys and a good one, too. I wonder where he is.” 

Gilbert strode across the hall and asked Mr. Lumpkin 
and Heffler the question. They had not seen Jimmy, 
but they returned, Mr. Lumpkin eagerly and Heffler with 
evident hesitation, to join the group in the parlor. 

“You’ll do it, Lumpkin?” Gilbert asked, as they 
crossed the hall. 

“Do it?” repeated Mr. Lumpkin. “Why, the minute 
Joe mentions the matter I says to myself, 'Peter,’ says I, 
' he wants it done, — meaning you, sir, of course, — and it ’ll 
be a matter of pride ’ ” 

“ Good for you,” said Jack, as they entered the parlor. 

Billy McNish and his father were laughing at the 
Colonel, who evidently had been talking and who was 
watching them with an amusing mixture of anxiety and 
good-humor on his grizzled face. 

“Why don’t you try something Western on him?” 
Billy was saying. “Lasso him or hold him up.” 

The Colonel chuckled as he looked up at Mr. Lumpkin, 
who stood in forensic attitude, one hand shoved between 
the buttons of his tight coat, his mild little eyes shifting 
about the room as if he were looking for an opportunity 
to speak. 

“Mister Lumpkin,” remarked the Colonel, “I’m plumb 


302 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


interested in yer Mr. Tubb. Y’ought to know him like 
you’d know’d George Washington if you’d a ben his 
sister’s husband’s brother.” 

Everybody smiled except the night-lunch man. Mr. 
Lumpkin noticed neither the allusion nor the smile. 
There are men who coin phrases for their own use and 
who wear them out with constant repetition. But Mr. 
Lumpkin was more altruistic. He gave his phrases 
freely and they seldom came back to him. 

“Mr. Tubb, sir?” he said, clasping his hands com- 
placently upon his waistcoat. “Certainly you must 
know Mr. Tubb’s reputation too well for me ” 

“Yes,” broke in the Colonel. “Tubb’s like a hull lot 
o’ men. Reckon I know his reputation like a brother, 
but I ain’t never shook hands with his character.” 

“Well, sir,” Mr. Lumpkin went on, paying no heed 
to the Colonel’s interruption, “he’s a man full of faith, 
hope an’ charity, — these three, or words to that effect, — 
Mr. Tubb is. Of course, sir, a man of business must 
consider the piles of shekels, how they grow, or words to 
that effect. He must watch, with clear and undiminished 
vision, the machinations of his deadly rival in the grocery 
trade. He is proud of his position, Mr. Tubb is, as be- 
comes a man who furnishes food to a great community. 
What would become of this thriving city, I ask you, 
gentlemen, if, for one short week, its magnificent stores, 
dedicated to the satisfaction of the inner man, should 
close their doors? Mr. Tubb feels his power and yet he 
is humble. He goes to church and mingles his voice with 

the psalm of praise that rises to the skies and yet ” 

Mr. Lumpkin paused to glance about the room. Then 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 303 


he added in a lower voice — “He plays a good game of 
poker, so good a game indeed that, if he was not my 
employer and, of course, beyond reproach, I should be 
tempted, sorely tempted, to ask him forcibly how he 
arranges to hold four of a kind almost every time he 
deals.” Mr. Lumpkin was indulging in reminiscent cha- 
grin, but now he caught himself. “Not meaning any- 
thing against Mr. Tubb, gentlemen. Merely wishing to 
show you that he is an all-round man, a man of power 
and yet a man of the people, a man of ” 

“Thet’s all right, Mister Lumpkin,” said the Colonel, 
pulling his gray mustaches. “Reckon I’d know Tubb’s 
character now, ef I met it loose in the street.” 

“I think we’ve had enough business for to-night,” 
Gilbert remarked. “I’m sick of it.” 

They all agreed with him. No one could have told 
exactly how it started, but a few minutes later they were 
gathered about Billy at the piano, while Mr. Lumpkin 
repeated his first Hampstead success about the romantic 
couple 

“ A suckin’ cider throo a straw.” 

When, following that, Mr. Lumpkin, on a hint from 
Jack, started to bellow “To drive dull care away,” in his 
megaphonic baritone, they all joined in, Mr. McNish en- 
joying himself most of all, swaying shoulder to shoulder 
with the night-lunch man, and grumbling away at an 
improvised and not always harmonious bass. The Colonel, 
droning along in monotone, stood arm in arm with Gil- 
bert and Joe Heffler, who were trying to second the elder 
McNish’s efforts, while Billy pounded the piano to make 


304 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


it heard in the din, and added a shrill, jerky tenor during 
his more leisure moments. 

“ To drive dull care away.” 

Jimmy O’Rourke lounged about the bar of the Hamp- 
stead Hotel that night, commenting on the day’s base- 
ball scores with Mike the bartender, who whistled between 
puffs from a long yellow cigar. He was there when Mr. 
Conlin entered from a door at the back that led to the 
servants’ stairway. Mr. Conlin ordered a drink and 
added a few personal anecdotes of ball players he had 
met, while Mike, awed by such intimate knowledge of 
great men, listened and asked questions very deferentially. 
Jimmy tried to sell Mr. Conlin one of the papers he had 
under his arm, and then drifted into an adjoining room. 
The labor leader finished his drink and, remarking that 
it was a fine night for a walk, he strutted to the side door 
and out into a dark alley that led back to a neglected 
street of workmen’s houses. A few seconds later Jimmy 
returned. 

“Say, Mike,” he said, excitedly, to the bartender, 
“ they’s a guy in there that says Brennan, you know, av 
de Chicago’s, is a quitter. It ain’t so. Brennan’s all 
right. Where’s de stranger gone? He knows him.” 

The bartender looked up from his paper, eager for an 
argument, and jerked his thumb toward the side door. 
Jimmy crossed the room quickly. Once in the alley, 
however, and the door closed softly behind him, he 
stopped and listened. In the silence he could hear the 
quick thud of Conlin’s footsteps on the hard soil ahead. 
He crept close to the brick wall and followed, scarcely 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 305 


breathing. Out into the side street they went, Conlin 
walking rapidly, the boy behind him stealing along in 
the shadows, watching him. Twice Conlin turned sud- 
denly but he saw nothing, for the boy stopped in his 
tracks. Up West Hill they went. Once Conlin passed 
under the glare of a lamp at a corner and paused in the 
half darkness beyond for some minutes. Then he went 
on, smiling complacently, and, turning to the left, he 
made a wide detour before starting down toward the 
south end of town. Once again he stopped, and this 
time he sat down at the foot of a great elm tree by the 
walk. The streets were quiet except for the beat of a 
horse's hoofs at a crossing below, and even that far-away 
noise soon died away. For some minutes Conlin sat 
quiet and listened. Then he struck a match, looked at 
his watch and lit a cigar. He did not notice a form, 
farther down on the opposite side of the street, obliterate 
itself against the fence palings. 

Conlin was enjoying the night, not because it suggested 
peace but because it brought to him a sense of stealth 
and, strange to say, of sentimentality. The two mem- 
ories that came to him were of a night when a crowd of 
strikers in New York state set fire to a factory, and the 
night when he had first kissed Katy Doherty and had 
immediately carried her off to become Mrs. Conlin. She 
was dead now, Katy, rest her soul, and his little black 
eyes grew suddenly moist. He puffed away rapidly on 
his cigar and was very contented. 

He lit another match and looked again at his watch. 
Then he stumbled to his feet and marched down the hill. 
A moment later the palings across the way grew ani- 


306 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


mated, and a figure slouched along silently on the turf 
by the walk. The electric light at the corner above 
sputtered and hissed and grew dim, and when it started 
once more into its full brilliancy it shone only on dark 
houses and a deserted street. 

Conlin’s short steps as he went down the hill were so 
rapid that they approximated a run. He had delayed 
under the tree on the hill longer than he had intended, 
and he took a straight course now, never once turning 
to look back at the street behind him. The arc light that 
hung at the corner facing Alonzo Hubbard’s simple and 
dignified home was not burning that night, and Conlin 
smiled as he thought how easily little things of that kind 
were managed by those who had money and power. He 
crossed the broad lawn, hid completely in the darkness, 
and knocked at a side door which opened almost in- 
stantly. He whispered his name, and, a second later, 
the door closed behind him, almost in the face of the 
boy who had arisen from the sod beside the entrance. 

The only brilliantly lighted room evident from the out- 
side was on the other side of the house, and thither Jimmy 
crept. The shades were pulled down closely, but one 
moved in the faint breeze, showing that the window was 
raised. Beneath it in the shadows the boy knelt and 
listened. At first he heard only the confused noise of 
voices. For five — ten — fifteen minutes he waited, the 
dull ache of his strained position adding to his impatience. 
Then he suddenly grew tense. A voice was speaking 
noisily just above him, Conlin’s voice. 

A few minutes later Jimmy O’Rourke slipped away 
from under the window and almost ran across the dark 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 307 


lawn to the street. Once upon the sidewalk he walked 
briskly along and boarded a West Hill car. 

The maid interrupted the swinging chorus to say that 
there was a paper boy at the door who wanted to see Mr. 
Gilbert. The song stopped suddenly and Jack went out 
into the hallway. When he returned he had one arm 
about the shoulders of a freckled-faced, undersized boy 
whose mouth was twisted in a self-conscious grin. 

“ Jimmy O’Rourke, the boy detective,” laughed Gil- 
bert, by way of introduction. 

And so they began the second verse. 

“ Too much care will turn a young man gray 
And too much care will turn an old man to clay. 

So we will dance and laugh and sing 
And merrily pass the day, 

For we count it one of the wisest things 
To drive dull care away.” 

The sedate old house fairly shook with the noise of 
it, and people passing in the street outside stopped and 
listened and wondered. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A DRIVE TO WESTBURY 

H AMPSTEAD people watched the beginning of 
the strike languidly. It would not last long, 
everybody said. At first the general feeling, 
even in the other shops, was rather against the strikers. 
Hardy men were well paid, according to the Hampstead 
standard of wages. 

Down at the Center, outgoing trolley cars carried lei- 
surely men and their families, all in their Sunday best, to 
Clear Lake or to other nearby resorts. The fountain in 
the little square was surrounded by benches, filled with 
a pipe-smoking, spitting, noisy, profane, dirty, good- 
natured crowd, content with temporary freedom. Along 
the edge of Main Street, on the sidewalks in front of the 
churches, there was strung at any hour of the day a 
wavering line of men, who listened to their haranguing 
fellows and nodded apathetically and wiped tobacco juice 
from their mouths and stared at the passers-by. 

Down Railroad Street, near the long blocks which 
Hardy & Son’s shops occupied, men stood alone on cor- 
ners and sat silently in open windows, watching sharply 
every avenue which led toward the mills. Every hour 
or two, night and day, new pickets took their places in 
ceaseless vigil. 


308 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 309 


Slowly Hampstead became more interested and more 
excited as the days went by with no settlement, and as 
the noise of the political canvass began to be heard. 
The News and the Register, both glad of something to 
relieve the monotony of the daily “Miss Annie O’Flynn 
is visiting relatives in Albany,” and “Miss Mabelle Mc- 
Cartee, daughter of Ex- Alderman McCartee, has returned 
from Boston,” gave large space to their views of the 
political struggle, and reported verbatim the few speeches 
that were made. Strangely enough, however, the edi- 
torial pages of both papers published daily unusually 
well-written articles condemning the attitude of Hardy 
& Son toward its employees. “It is a pity,” said the 
News one night, “that Mr. Hardy is ill, for the young 
man, who is in charge at this critical juncture, has been 
too recently lifted from the ranks to be properly con- 
siderate of the men. Moreover he seems to lack the 
courage of any definite conviction, and the concern, which, 
it is said, is not in too strong a condition financially, is 
losing ground rapidly thereby. It would seem that the 
directors or the stockholders of Hardy & Son would 
object to such a fatal policy.” 

The influence of these editorials grew daily, and the 
storekeepers, who, aside from Mr. Butterson, the cash 
grocer, were farther each day from collecting the growing 
bills of the men, began to center their blame upon John 
Gilbert. People began asking why this young Gilbert 
should be allowed to make so much trouble for every- 
body, and stockholders in Hardy & Son grew more and 
more worried over the outlook. The men themselves, 
who had followed Conlin blindly into the strike, read the 


310 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


editorials and found constantly new grievances, not 
against Hardy & Son, but against its manager. A num- 
ber of business men, led by ex-Congressman Strutt, called 
upon Gilbert one evening and emerged, shaking their 
heads, some fifteen minutes later. The ex-Congressman 
wrote a letter to the Register , which appeared on the fol- 
lowing evening, scoring Gilbert directly and declaring: 
“Not content with ruining the noted mills of which the 
town is righteously proud, he is dealing a blow to Hamp- 
stead progress that should arouse all citizens against 
him.” The citizens wondered at the Honorable Strutt’s 
vehemence, but they re-read his words and believed them. 

This letter of the Honorable Strutt seemed to give the 
News , which could not afford to be left behind by the 
Register, an inspiration for “interviews.” The first one 
was printed on the day following the issue of Mr. Strutt’s 
letter, and it completely convinced many of those who 
still held wavering allegiance to Gilbert. The letter was 
a dignified apology from Mayor Brett, formerly secretary 
of Hardy & Son, for the conditions at the shops. Mr. 
Brett expressed his sympathy for the workingmen who 
had made, as it seemed to him, a perfectly reasonable 
demand; for the other stockholders who, like himself, 
were helpless, in the face of a majority on the board of 
directors, to put an end to the ruinously bad manage- 
ment of Mr. Gilbert; and for the town, which must tem- 
porarily suffer the consequences of a strike. Elsewhere 
in the same copy of the News, it was stated sorrowfully 
in large type that Mr. Gilbert was active for the candidacy 
of Alderman McNish, and the Register immediately took 
this statement and Mr. Brett’s manly attitude in the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


311 


interview as important reasons for urging the election of 
Mr. Brett by a large majority. One week before the 
election, therefore, Mr. Brett seemed certain of the sup- 
port not only of the self-styled “ better people” of both 
parties, but as well of a good proportion of the labor vote. 
Meanwhile the group of men about Mr. Alonzo Hubbard 
were offering Hardy stockholders a very moderate price 
for their stock. 

Only two achievements seemed to mark Gilbert’s work 
during the eight days that had passed. One of these 
was that he had carted three new automatic machines 
from the freight yards to the factories in broad daylight, 
before the eyes of the Union pickets. The other event, 
which aroused considerable indignation, was reported 
fully in the papers. One morning, it seemed, he had 
heard a noise as he sat in the factory office. He had 
gone out into the mills and had discovered Councilman 
Martin Jethro, a foreman, who declared afterwards that 
he had come to get some tools, his own private property. 
Gilbert had seized Jethro, without waiting for any expla- 
nation, and had literally thrown him through the window. 
Jethro had been cut severely by the glass and had been 
bruised by the fall, the papers said, but he had refused 
to make a complaint. 

In spite of the increasing agitation of the Hampstead 
male mind over the strike, the leading women in town 
had contented themselves with mere personal comment 
upon Gilbert and Mr. Brett and the others concerned, 
and with expressions of disgust at the loafers that made 
it unpleasant to go down-town. On the Tuesday after- 
noon, however, exactly a week before election day, there 


312 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


occurred the monthly meeting of the Women’s Club. The 
regular program announced included a paper on “The 
Philosophy of Robert Browning,” presented by Mrs. 
Bradley-Bassette. Mrs. Bassette’s paper quoted thirty- 
one passages from various authorities on the subject; 
but — because she did not wish to interfere with the 
symmetry of her essay by mentioning the quotation 
marks; and because none of the other ladies had looked 
up the statements of the authorities on this particular 
subject; and, most of all, because Mrs. Bassette was a 
very popular woman, who subscribed generously to the 
lecture fund and who wore a gown that was worthy of 
careful inspection — no one noticed how the authorities 
had been honored. 

The other paper was on the “Love Letters of the Brown- 
ings” and was the product of Cordelia Snif kins’ genius. 
Cordelia Snifkins was a confessed authoress. She had 
written literally hundreds of love stories, which, after 
going the rounds of the few magazines in which Miss 
Snifkins cared to have the creations of her pen appear, 
had been tied up carefully in pink ribbon and put away. 
“ Just as Frank Stockton did,” the lady herself remarked. 
“You know, he wrote for years, too, before the editors 
grew up to him, and afterwards he sold for large prices 
all the lovely things that he had written and that they 
had refused.” Miss Snifkins was as tall as the proverbial 
bean-pole and her dresses properly twined upon her. 
She had a long nose and a sharp voice. She was forty- 
five years of age and single, although it can be asserted 
that she was blameless for either of these misfortunes. 
Miss Snifkins, withal, was the essence of modesty. When 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 313 


the only story of hers which any publisher had ever 
accepted appeared in print, Miss Snifkins had done her 
best to be perfectly natural and unaffected with her former 
acquaintances. She admitted, however, to a friend, who 
without a smile suggested to her that it must be a pleas- 
ant sensation to be great, that “it did rather uplift 
one.” 

Miss Snifkins’ eloquent paper completed the prear- 
ranged program, but the president had a surprise in store. 
Remarking in a short speech, obviously unprepared, that 
the labor question was “timely and opportune,” she 
called for extemporaneous discussion. Mrs. Robert 
Brett, a pale little woman who was the chairman of 
the Hampstead Hospital committee, arose and read 
a short argument on “The Oppression of Honest 
Labor.” The paper was written with surprisingly mas- 
culine vigor, and it used, by open suggestion, the Hardy 
& Son strike as an example to prove its text. No extem- 
poraneous discussion followed. Instead, the women 
crowded around Mrs. Brett and congratulated her. Sud- 
denly they had attained understanding and convictions 
concerning labor troubles. Conditions must be reformed 
and the working people must be helped. Some of the 
members wished to do something immediately, but there 
seemed to be nothing they could do at last except to go 
home, and homeward they journeyed, talking as they 
went. 

The next day’s issues of the News and the Register 
reported fully Mrs. Brett’s remarks, and printed edito- 
rials commending them, although there had been no 
reporters at the meeting. A few of the cynically inclined 


314 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


members admitted, when they read it, that Mrs. Brett 
was a “ clever advertiser,” but nearly all of them quoted, 
as their own, catch phrases from her paper. 

There was everything, in the outward appearance of 
the situation that Tuesday night, to make Mr. Hubbard 
and his associates supremely contented. Even two of 
the leading preachers had played into their hands in 
their Sunday sermons. And most encouraging of all was 
the way in which Mr. Conlin had risen to the situation. 
Once over his initial fear of Gilbert, he played the part 
of a slandered leader of a righteous cause so perfectly 
that he had almost come to believe in himself, and strutted 
about with increasing dignity. He had talked with good 
effect to business men in Hampstead, some of whom were 
stockholders in Hardy & Son. He had increased his hold 
upon the men. Uneasy as certain groups of the strikers 
had become, there had been no violence to alienate the 
people’s sympathy or to harm the shops. The only act 
approaching hoodlumism had occurred one morning on 
Railroad Street, when one of a group in a window sent a 
stone singing past John Gilbert’s head, as the tall man 
strode by toward the silent mills. Gilbert, as the story 
went, turned and, taking off his cap, stood looking smil- 
ingly about him. Then, singling out the group at the 
window, he called out good-naturedly something about 
their marksmanship never winning any cigars, and went 
on slowly down the street. And, strangely enough, 
some of the men in the window cheered him and no more 
stones were thrown. 

Only two things worried Mr. Strutt or Mr. Brett: the 
silence of John Gilbert and the suspicious lack of enthu- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 315 


siasm among the supporters of Alderman Me Nish. They 
had made Gilbert, as Mr. Brett said, the most unpopular 
man Hampstead had ever known. But he paid no 
attention. He had not even made a public statement 
of his attitude toward the strike. The opposition politi- 
cal campaign had been even less vigorous than usual. 
The only evidence of activity was the work which Colonel 
Mead and Mr. McNish were doing in retarding the sale 
of Hardy stock. Mr. Strutt remarked that they had 
underestimated their own skill and overestimated John 
Gilbert’s, a solution that was humanly satisfactory. 

It was on Wednesday that Gilshannon of the News, 
with an eye to the sensational possibilities for his paper, 
suggested casually to Mr. Brett that Gilbert might be 
induced to take part in a joint political debate to be held 
on the night before election day. Gilshannon argued 
that ex-Congressman Strutt could easily out-talk him, 
and that Gilbert’s refusal would hurt him more than his 
acceptance. The challenge was promptly published, and 
Gilshannon followed it on Thursday afternoon by a call 
at the Gilbert house. 

Thursday afternoon, however, found John Gilbert dri- 
ving a pounding, slouch-eared livery horse toward West- 
bury, and by his side, her face pale from confinement 
indoors and clean cut as a cameo against her waving 
black hair, sat Clare Hardy. Gilbert had not even seen 
her in the week that had intervened. Mr. Hardy had 
grown steadily worse, and the doctor, coming soberly 
from the sick room on the morning after her last visit 
to the shops, had permitted her to join the nurse at Mr. 
Hardy’s side. There she had remained almost constantly, 


316 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


except for a ride or two with Billy in the Hardy auto- 
mobile. 

To Gilbert her absence brought a sudden, blank depres- 
sion that staggered him. But he worked on doggedly, 
sending occasional messages to her by his mother. He 
said to himself that he must put her out of his mind, 
knowing as he said it that he could not do anything of 
the kind. He said to himself that Billy was his friend, 
and then almost hated Billy for his own sacrifice. He 
told himself that it was all for the best. And yet he 
realized that, try as he would, he had lost much of his 
interest in the struggle before him. The double task 
seemed suddenly hopeless. The taste of the fight had 
lost its tang, and the blows that were being struck at him 
daily from behind his back did not stir him. He plodded 
along without that fire of enthusiasm which, from weaker 
material, often molds many a mighty power. There 
were times, however, when a force stronger than his will 
seemed to draw him toward the Hardy house, and to-day, 
with a drive to Westbury before him, he had yielded to 
it. When she joined him he started to take a circuitous 
course through many side streets to the Westbury 
road. 

“Why are we going this way?” she asked. 

“People are known by the company they keep,” he 
said with a smile. “I’ve a reputation now. The News 
says Pm the most unpopular man in Hampstead. I can’t 
afford to appear in public, driving with an ordinary popu- 
lar person like you.” 

For answer she resolutely took the reins from his 
hands and turned the horse toward the Center. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 317 


“ You’re morbid,” was all she said, while he looked on 
contentedly. 

It was strange how different the world looked to Gil- 
bert from that hired buggy with Clare Hardy beside 
him. The trees at the roadside had put on their autumn 
colors of dark red and yellow, and rolling fields, their 
crops already harvested, stretched away green and brown 
on either side. Occasionally the road led them past 
straggling frame houses, weary with age, and now and 
then they caught sight of men like moving dots on the 
far-away hillsides. The people whom they met, red- 
cheeked girls and tanned, brawny men, called “ good- 
day” to them, and one tall, gawky fellow, mowing before 
a dignified old colonial house with broad white pillars, 
waved a broad-brimmed straw hat as they drove by. 
Everywhere were simple, sociable people working under 
a kindly sun on a peaceful land. 

“God’s country,” said Gilbert quietly, scarcely con- 
scious that he was speaking. “This makes you under- 
stand why people like to get back to Connecticut. There’s 
a home feeling about it. I have a notion right now that 
it all belongs to me and I to it. Do you feel that way?” 

“I don’t believe I ever did until to-day. I’m afraid 
I never thought much about it. I only began to grow 
up a month or two ago, you know.” 

The girl looked dreamily away from him toward the 
open fields. 

“You haven’t told me yet why you haven’t been to 
see me,” she remarked a little later. 

“No,” he said gravely, “and I’m not going to.” 

“You thought I didn’t care.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


318 


“No.” 

“You were so busy you forgot all about me.” 

“No!” 

“I wasn’t of any use, so you went to see those who 
were.” 

“No!!” 

“ Then why?” 

“Did you notice that bird? What was it?” 

Miss Hardy hesitated at this rebuff. 

“Do you think it was fair,” she asked at last, “you in 
the midst of things and I shut indoors, reading those lies 
in the papers and listening now and then to Billy’s in- 
coherencies?” 

At her last words Gilbert glanced at her questioningly 
and then looked away from her upturned eyes, his pulse 
beating rapidly. 

“There wasn’t much to tell,” he said lamely. 

“Does that excuse you?” 

“No.” 

“I was hurt. I nearly didn’t come this afternoon.” 
Clare Hardy had clearly forgotten her minute and hasty 
preparations for the drive. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“ I don’t believe it.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

It was her turn to look away suddenly at the fields 
that seemed to move slowly past them. 

“ What have you done,” she asked more quietly, “ and 
what will you do?” 

“Everything you’ve suggested and will suggest,” he 
said, smiling. 









V. •• 

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You re 


morbid , ’ 


rt// .v//p .srw/.‘ 
















. 










































THE BALANCE OF POWER 319 


Miss Hardy wrinkled her forehead into a puzzled little 
frown. 

“Are you making fun of me or don’t you want to tell 
me?” she asked. 

“It’s true. You’ve suggested everything to me that 
we’ve done. You suggested that Mr. Hubbard was back 
of the strike.” 

Miss Hardy started. 

“Why, I never even heard of it,” she said. “Is he? 
Oh, no, it’s impossible.” 

“You suggested to me that the biggest reason he wants 
the shop is that he owns the West bury mills,” Gilbert 
went on relentlessly. 

“ But I shouldn’t have dreamt what it meant if I had 
known about it, and I didn’t know,” gasped the girl. 

“ Neither did anyone else. I don’t know it yet. That’s 
why we’re driving to Westbury.” 

Clare Hardy gave a low cry of pleasure. Then her 
brows knit suddenly. 

“But,” she said, “what do you mean by saying that 
I had anything to do with it?” 

“I’ll show you. I’ve a notion that there was dis- 
honesty connected with a grant to the Street Railway 
Company last spring. I’ve been trying for a week to 
find out how to prove it. You suggested a way to me 
about four miles back, when we weren’t talking because 
the country was so beautiful.” 

“ But — how can you say ” 

“Perhaps one reason why I didn’t come to see you,” 
Gilbert interrupted, “was that it was hard for me to 
admit that it was only when you were with me to sug- 


320 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


gest things that I had any ideas, that I was useless when 
I was alone.” 

Miss Hardy stared at the road ahead where, through 
the trees, the outlying houses of Westbury town could 
be seen. Gilbert’s eyes were fixed on her hand that lay 
curved with unconscious grace upon her lap. He had 
never realized before that driving gloves were really 
beautiful. 

“ You’re trying to make me very proud, Mr. Gilbert.” 

“My name used to be Jack.” 

“Mine was Clare then,” the girl retorted. Then she 
laughed gayly. “It always seems funny to hear you say 
‘Miss Hardy’ in that grave voice of yours.” 

“I’ll say Clare like a boy.” 

“Do you remember, Jack Gilbert,” she cried, ignoring 
his glance, “ how you and Billy used to take turns rescu- 
ing me from the Indians, and how hurt I was because you 
both wanted to be the Indian every time? I was actually 
afraid that sometime both of you would creep upon me 
at once, and I’d never be rescued.” 

Gilbert nodded, and they drove on silently. 

“It’s taken us all a long time to remember it, Clare.” 

“We’ve never really forgotten, Jack.” 

They were in Westbury by this time, bowling along 
under giant old maples and elms that stretched out, with 
bowed heads, a trembling benediction over the quiet 
street. Gilbert pulled in the horse to ask their way of 
a man passing on a crosswalk. 

“Westbury mills? Oh, yes,” he said with an English 
accent. “Ye take the first left— hit’s there in the trees 
yonder— ah’ then ye keep h’agoin’ huntil ye come to a 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 321 


street to the left. Now ye don’t take that street ’cause 
hit leads hup the ’ill. Ye keep h’agoin’ an’ ye come to a 
crossin’. That’s where the church is. Then ye keep 
h’agoin’ an’ ye take the second right an’ keep h’agoin’ till 
ye turn to the left — not the first one ’cause that only goes 
a little way, but the second one. Then ye keep h’agoin’ 
huntil ye come to the one — two — three,” counting on his 
fingers, “third right, an’ then ye’d better hinquire. I’ve 
forgotten whether hit’s the third or the fourth. There’s 
a shorter way ” 

But Gilbert had already thanked him and had spoken 
to the horse. As soon as they were hidden from the man, 
Miss Hardy burst into little convulsions of laughter that 
she punctuated every now and then with: 

“Ye keep h’agoin’, Jack, ye keep h’agoin’.” 

Strangely enough, they found the way easily, and 
Gilbert soon drew rein and sprang from the carriage in 
front of the newly built office-building of the Westbury 
mills. 

“Shall I come, too?” she asked. 

“No. They may not take kindly to me inside, and 
I’m proud.” 

For a second he stood smiling at her. He was won- 
dering whimsically whether she would really be there 
waiting for him when he came out. Then he turned 
and went slowly up the steps. It was not until he had 
opened the door and stood in the room, walled in by high 
counters and wire partitions, that the vision of her in 
black and white faded from before his mind’s eye. And 
when it disappeared it left him unusually alert and clear- 
headed. 


322 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ Good-afternoon,” he said pleasantly, to a boy behind 
a desk. “Is Mr. Hubbard here?” 

“ Mr. Hubbard ?” asked the boy wonderingly. 

“Yes, Mr. Hubbard of Hampstead. I had a notion 
that he would be here to-day.” 

“I — I’ll ask Mr. Hooker.” 

The boy vanished behind a door beyond, marked 
“ President,” from which he quickly reappeared, followed 
by a dapper, officious little man with a gray beard, who 
took short nervous steps and seemed constantly irritated. 

“Well, sir?” he asked, frowning up at the big man. 

“I wanted to see Mr. Hubbard, Mr. Alonzo Hubbard 
of Hampstead,” drawled Gilbert affably. Mr. Hooker 
looked him over quizzically. 

“Mr. Alonzo Hubbard,” he said musingly, never once 
taking his eyes from his visitor’s face. “ Yes, I’ve heard 
of him. But he isn’t here; hasn’t been here. Is he — 
did you mean that you thought he was coming here 
to-day?” 

“I may be mistaken,” said Gilbert. “May I use your 
’phone?” he asked suddenly “Perhaps I can get him 
on the wire.” 

“Why— certainly.” Mr. Hooker stared at him doubt- 
fully. Then he opened a little gateway and added, 
“Come into my office, sir.” 

While Gilbert was instructing the local central, Mr. 
Hooker, although ostentatiously busy with papers on 
his desk, shifted his eyes often to the open-faced, smiling 
man opposite him. 

“I brought you in here because I thought it might be 
private business,” he remarked, when Gilbert hung up 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 323 


the receiver and sat waiting for “long distance” to get 
Hampstead for him. 

“I’m obliged to you. It is.” Gilbert’s ej^es looked 
at him understanding^ and continued to smile. 

Mr. Hooker seemed relieved. 

“My being here ” he started to suggest. 

“Oh, not at all.” 

Mr. Hooker nodded complacently. The bell rang. 
Gilbert leaned over the ’phone, his eyes upon Mr. Hooker, 
who had turned and was watching him. 

“Hello — no, I want Mr. Alonzo Hubbard. No, no- 
body else will do.” 

There was a moment’s tense silence, in which a paper 
on a table by the window fluttered noisily under a paper 
weight. Gilbert spent the time hoping that the distance 
would make the answers inaudible except to him. 

“Hello, Mr. Hubbard.” 

“Yes,” came a voice so dully that even Gilbert, the 
receiver close to his ear, could scarcely hear it. 

“This is Westbury.” 

“Yes; who’s talking?” 

“Mr. Hooker’s private office. Doors closed.” Gilbert 
winked deliberately at Mr. Hooker before he went on. 
“Thought you’d like to know I’ve one hundred H. and 
S. Understand?” 

“Good. Talk carefully. Whose was it?” 

Gilbert pressed the receiver more closely to his ear as 
if to shut out the sound. 

“How many do you lack now?” he asked. 

“ About fourteen hundred. Whose was it, did you say ? ” 

Gilbert hesitated. 


324 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“Is the election all right ?” he asked desperately. 

“Oh, certain. But, Hooker, whose was it?” 

“Better not say. I'll write. There was something 
else, but I can find that out here. Good-by.” 

Gilbert hung up the receiver quickly and looked at Mr. 
Hooker. Mr. Hooker smiled jovially at him. 

“Everything going well?” he asked. 

“Like a summer breeze,” drawled his visitor. “It 'll 
be all over in a week.” 

“What was it you wanted to find out here?” 

“I want to glance at the stock book.” 

Mr. Hooker rang a bell and sent a tall, thin man to 
the safe. 

“ Business improving during the righteous Hardy 
strike?” asked Gilbert with a grin. 

Mr. Hooker, now entirely at his ease, said that it was 
too soon to see any great change. But he chatted proudly 
of a few large orders that had come in, and, incidentally, 
of the shrewdness he himself had displayed in obtaining 
them. Gilbert took the stock book from the hands of 
the clerk and thumbed it over hurriedly, making mem- 
oranda as he went along. Mr. Hooker sat watching him 
thoughtfully. 

“I suppose this is Mr. Merrivale,” he said at last. 

“No,” said Gilbert slowly, making a few last entries in 
his note book. “You’ve got me wrong.” 

He arose and towered over the little president as they 
shook hands. 

“Not Mr. Merrivale!” said Mr. Hooker anxiously. 
“Why, I thought I knew the others: Mr. Brett and ex- 
Congressman Strutt, and — who are you, sir?” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 325 


Gilbert smiled down at him pleasantly. 

“My name is Gilbert, Mr. Hooker/’ he said. “John 
Gilbert. I’m manager of Hardy & Son. You may 
report to Mr. Hubbard that I have one hundred shares 
of that stock if you think it is wise for you to do so. I 
think he knows it already. I’m greatly obliged to you 
^for your courtesy, and I’m really sorry I had to take 
advantage of it. Good-day, sir.” 

Mr. Hooker, white with anger and fear, stood staring 
after the big man. He turned then and rang a bell, but 
the boy who answered it found the president pacing up 
and down the floor irresolutely. Meanwhile Gilbert had 
taken his place silently in the carriage outside. 

“What happened?” asked Miss Hardy as they drove 
down the street. 

“Oh, I’ve been telephoning.” 

“ But you’re shaking like an ague patient.” 

“Very likely.” 

As he told her slowly what he had done, urged on by 
her persistent questions, a glowing exhilaration swept 
over him until it reached her also, and they were both 
laughing and talking excitedly. In their absorption they 
lost their way in the winding Westbury streets, and a 
kindly faced notary, at whose house they made inquiries, 
very naturally insisted on misunderstanding their errand, 
to her amusement and his embarrassment. 

The ride home that afternoon, while the shadows 
lengthened across the road and the twilight sounds broke 
the twilight silence, was far too short for them both. 
Men in heavy wagons, free after the day’s toil, greeted 
them jovially, for their faces were too happy to be passed 


326 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


in silence. Small boys, driven in rope harness by other 
small boys, raced with the horse and beat him easily amid 
loud shouts of triumph from mimic horse and driver. The 
broad fields smiled at them and the jovial old sun winked 
from the crest of the western hills. 

When they came to where the outlying south end of 
Hampstead squatted, dull and silent in the growing dusk, 
he pulled back the horse, eager for home, into a walk. 
It seemed to him that there could never be an afternoon 
like this one again. Too rapidly they passed through 
the Center and too rapidly they toiled up West Hill. The 
realities of the silent Hardy house, with its curtain-drawn 
windows, sobered them. 

“A wonderful afternoon, Jack.” He was helping her 
from the carriage. 

“The most wonderful,” he said with conviction. 

“It’s been like old times.” 

“We’ll have them again, perhaps, the three of us,” he 
said, suddenly remembering Billy. 

“Yes,” she nodded, “the three of us.” 

A smile, a firm clasp of the hand, and she was gone. 

Gilbert found Gilshannon awaiting him on the steps 
outside the little house. It was the reporter’s third visit 
during the afternoon. 

“Hello, Gil.” Gilbert’s greeting was hearty. “The 
News found some new reason why I’m the boy curse of 
this be-u-tiful town, as the ex-Congressman says.” 

“That new Register man’s inside waiting for you,” 
Gilshannon said with a wink. “ Went right by me in 
the dark. He’s with the Colonel and Billy. You know 
that Mr. Strutt has challenged you to a wordy duel. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 327 


What do you say to it? That’s what I’m here to find 
out.” 

Gilbert stretched and clasped his big hands behind his 
neck thoughtfully. 

“I’ll say this and not a word more, Gil,” he said slowly 
after a moment. “Mr. Strutt is a lawyer and an orator; 
I’m not. He could convince an audience of what is 
wrong more easily than I could convince them of what is 
right. Besides that, Mr. Strutt — and Mr. Brett, too, as 
far as that goes — are merely the cat’s-paws of a much 
more dangerous power. Concerning that power some- 
thing may be said later. I shan’t answer what you call 
his challenge. What’s the use of talking about such a 
fool idea as that?” 

“Can I say all that?” asked Gilshannon excitedly. 

Gilbert hesitated. He stood thinking for so long a 
time that the reporter turned to look apprehensively at 
the house. 

“Let me see. To-day is Thursday. You’ll print it 
to-morrow,” Gilbert said at last. “Yes, you can say 
that, Gil, and you can say, too, that there’ll be a big 
mass meeting for men at the Opera House Saturday 
night. We’ll send down an ad. to-morrow.” 

“And the Register?” insisted the reporter. 

“I’ll give you first chance, Gil.” Gilbert took two 
cigars from his pocket and handed one to the reporter. 
“Now, Gil,” he added, “what are you going to do for 
me?” 

Gilshannon took Jack’s arm and led him half way 
down the front walk. 

“I’ve been going to tell you,” he whispered, “only you 


328 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


mustn’t tell where you got it. Merrivale bought off the 
News” 

“Of course. How much?” 

“Three hundred.” 

“Sure?” 

“Well, I ought to know. I did the business.” 

Gilbert laughed and held out his hand. 

“Still playing both sides, Gil?” 

“Yes,” the reporter grinned, “but I bet ten dollars 
on Billy to-day at one to ten. Can’t afford to lose it. 
’Night, Jack.” 

There was a friendly slap on the back, subdued laugh- 
ter, and Gilshannon disappeared in the darkness. 

When Gilbert and his mother were left alone an hour 
later, they sat silent for some minutes in the little sitting- 
room. He was suddenly aware that he had been neg- 
lecting her throughout the past week. As he looked at 
her, rocking gently opposite him, staring thoughtfully 
at her toil-hardened hands, she seemed to him to have 
grown old, and he realized that she had been suffering 
for him. 

“What are you thinking, mither?” he asked. 

“I’m wondering if it’s right, laddie, w r hat you’re do- 
ing, what you did to-day; — if it’s Christian to ” 

“They’re a pack of scoundrels,” said Jack with sudden 
heat. 

Mrs. Gilbert moved uneasily in her chair. When she 
looked up she had ceased to rock. 

“Can you whip them, Jack?” she asked anxiously. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE BRICK BLOCK LOSES A TENANT 

HAT evening, as the slouching livery horse came 



leisurely homeward from Westbury, a man and a 


woman sat on a broad couch in a room of the 
Broad Street brick block. It was a front room, one 
flight up, a room of dull colors and shadows in the chang- 
ing light of the sunset and the afterglow. Even in the 
dusk, however, it was a room of contrasts. Three cane- 
seated chairs that suggested a bargain sale were grouped 
about a green-topped card table. Two large paintings 
in heavy oak frames were surrounded, on a red burlaped 
wall, by cheap photogravures and colored pictures cut 
from magazines. A small, delicately carved table, which 
indicated both wealth and taste, was surmounted by a 
few torn paper-covered novels and two photographs in 
cheap gilt frames. Grotesque weavings of cigarette 
smoke hung in mid air and curled about the white plaster 
figure of a saint upon the mantel. It was a room of 
contrasts. And perhaps the pair on the couch furnished 
the greatest contrast of all: the short, slender, young- 
faced man with his ruffled gray hair, and the blonde girl 
with her full figure, her full, parted lips and her blue 
eyes, heavy-lidded as they stared dreamily at the curling, 
shadowy smoke. 


329 


330 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“You said that just as if you meant it, Joe,” she 
whispered, moving uneasily in the tight clasp of his 
arms. 

Joe Heffler's left hand caught a stray wisp of yellow 
hair from her forehead and smoothed it back tenderly. 

“Course I meant it,” he said. 

The woman quivered at the caress. Then she laughed. 

“ It’s a cinch not to have to work,” she remarked. 

Heffler was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. 

“As long as the cash holds out,” he said. 

“Oh, I guess that 'll be all right.” Gerty Smith 
laughed again until she saw the double shadow upon his 
face. Then she caught his arm, and, almost before he 
knew it, she had kissed him and had buried her head 
against his shoulder. 

“I love you, Joe. I love you, do you hear? I love 
you; I love you; I love you.” 

Suddenly she slipped from him and threw herself upon 
one of the small chairs, one arm curled along its curved 
back. 

“It's a dream, you know,” she said pitifully, half to 
herself. “But don't wake me up yet. It's the first 
time I ever really cared.” 

Heffler straightened up and ran his fingers nervously 
through his gray hair. 

“Same here,” he said. 

“It's funny, Joe,” she went on dully after a pause. 
“I've had a bunch of men talk to me about love and all 
that, but none of 'em talked it the way you do. They 
said it better, but — well — there's a big difference. Say, 
you make me feel I've been a downright bad lot.” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 331 


“Forget it,” Heffler returned, with that masculine 
dominance which some men show only when they are 
with women. “I’d been in hell or worse if it hadn’t 
been for John Gilbert.” 

The woman nodded reflectively. 

“He did the square thing by you all right,” she said. 

Heffler’s mild face lit up with a strange smile of con- 
tentment. But he hesitated. He had come to a crisis, 
and Heffler shrank from crises. They reminded him of 
handcuffs and the court. Joe Heffler had felt only two 
strong passions in his life. One was that mysterious, 
unreasoning affection for the woman in the chair yon- 
der, and the other was a loyalty to the man who had 
befriended him, which amounted almost to worship. He 
knew that the man did not ask any such service of him 
as he had planned, but he felt that John Gilbert needed 
it. There was no question in his simple heart of what 
he himself might lose. 

“He’s in trouble.” Heffler leaned forward earnestly. 
“Your man Brett and the others are at the bottom of it.” 

At the name of Brett, Gerty Smith started and rose 
to her feet. 

“Brett?” she said complainingly. “Say, Joe, you’ve 
woke me up. He’s coming here to-night.” 

Heffler was beside her in an instant and, catching her 
arms, he turned her about until her face was toward the 
failing light. 

“I knew it,” he said. “I’d ’ve had the whole town 
told about it long ago, if it hadn’t been for you. What ’re 
you going to do about him?” 

The woman seemed to be frightened by the question. 


332 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“I don’t know/’ she said. “I hate him now. Honest, 
I do, Joe.” 

“All right.” Heffler fumbled in his pocket and brought 
forth a wrinkled piece of paper. “I want you to prove 
it,” he went on bluntly. “There are some questions on 
this. I want the answers.” 

She looked at him wonderingly, but she took the paper 
and went to the window, holding the paper to the light. 
Then she shook her head. 

“I don’t know any of ’em,” she said. 

“You don’t?” he asked quietly. “Then I want you 
to find out — to-night.” 

The last word seemed to flash the reality of it all across 
the woman’s mind. 

“ I can’t do that, Joe,” she said slowly. 

“Look here.” Heffler’s voice showed his irritation. 
“ You’ve been tattling to them about us. All I want you 
to do is to square the thing with us, and quit even with 
the game.” 

“I dasent,” she answered. “Haven’t got the nerve, 
Joe.” 

Heffler waited until the silence became more cruel to 
her than anything he might have said. 

“What ’d he do to me if he caught me?” she asked 
appealingly. “And, besides, he’s paying me for the 
things I’ve told him. I’ve got to live, Joe.” 

“It’s living or loving then,” said Heffler laconically. 
“You can choose between.” 

Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously over the 
paper. 

“I can’t do it, Joe,” she said. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 333 


“All right. Good-by.” 

The door closed behind him before she realized that 
he was going. She did not cry out. She merely sank 
back miserably upon the couch and buried her head upon 
her arms. Her whole life ranged itself before her and 
she cringed away from the vision of it. A sense of her 
complete degradation came to her. Love taught it with 
stinging strokes. Gerty Smith had never thought long 
about anything. She had known only what she saw 
and what she heard and what she felt. To be admired, 
to be cared for, to have the things which she saw other 
women have, these had formed her only goal. Love 
had been merely a word, — a rather silly word, she had 
been led to believe. Even now she could not under- 
stand it, and she tried to tell herself that she was many 
kinds of a fool. After a time she lit the light, and went 
across to look at herself in the glass. She began to 
rearrange her hair, tossing her head with attempted 
bravado. But after a moment she turned away. 

“Living or loving,” she repeated aloud. “Living or 
loving.” 

The lights in the Broad Street brick block were extin- 
guished one after another, until only one window, one 
flight up, in the entire front was marked by a dull glare 
from behind its heavy curtain. Above, Hampstead was 
stretching out lazily upon its two hills and going to 
sleep. A few blocks away Mrs. Brett, letting herself into 
her empty house after a prolonged hospital committee 
meeting, was saying to herself that she would be glad 
when her husband’s busy campaign was finished. Broad 


334 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Street grew more and more deserted, until the heavy step 
of the policeman on that beat alone echoed up and down 
the short thoroughfare. 

At the first stroke of midnight from the nearby bell of 
the old First Church, Mayor Robert Brett started. He 
was sitting, leaning forward, his elbows on the card table. 
His cheeks were flushed and he was smoothing his closely 
cropped mustache nervously. Opposite him was Gerty 
Smith, one arm leaning languidly across the green cover 
of the table; the other caught, with seeming carelessness, 
at one of the pockets beneath. The whiteness of her 
face seemed almost to spiritualize her large, coarsely 
pretty features. She, too, heard the bell and she saw 
dimly the sudden alertness of the man across the table. 

“Yes,” she cried almost boisterously, “money ’ll buy 
almost anything — almost any ” 

The man looked up suddenly. Then he raised himself 
to his feet and called to her. She did not answer. She 
hung, a dead weight, on the edge of her chair. He fol- 
lowed the edge of the table to her and shook her shoulders 
convulsively. Then he stood straight and tried to think. 
Perhaps she was dead. He had heard of things like that 
happening. The outwardly impassive Mr. Brett was 
anything but a brave man at heart. In his uncertainty 
he wandered toward the door at the back, thinking only 
of finding help. His eye caught the glint of a polished 
push button on the wall near the door, and he hurried to 
it. A push button meant her sister or somebody else, 
and a general shifting of responsibility from his caving 
shoulders. With an effort he drove it deep with his 
thumb. Then he tried to cry out, and he could not in 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


335 


his terror, for the room was suddenly in total darkness, 
except for a weird, glimmering reflection from a street 
lamp below. Frantically he groped for the other button 
which he knew must be near by, but his trembling hands 
could not find it. 

He stopped at last and tried to remember where the 
hall door had been before he turned off the lights, but 
he could not. He could think of only one thing. Some- 
where off in the darkness she lay, all in white. The 
thought terrified him. He called to her again, but no 
answer came. The window rattled a ghostly tattoo in 
the night wind. Sweat broke out upon him, and, whim- 
pering with maudlin fear, he instinctively made his way 
along the wall. The small table fell before him with a 
resounding crash, and a moment later he stumbled upon 
the couch. Standing straight once more, he swayed along 
past the window where the light gave him more courage. 
He went on, feeling his way before him with one hand, 
while the other reached its slow path on the burlaped 
wall. He tried to think where she was, and the uncer- 
tainty and the silence frightened him again. He hurried 
faster now. His right hand shoved a picture from its 
support, and it came down beside him with a dull thud, 
the broken glass jingling about his feet. Then he uttered 
a low, inarticulate cry of joy. The burlap ended and 
wood took its place, wood that shook under his touch. 
He groped for the knob, found it, and, throwing the door 
open, he stumbled across the threshold, slamming the 
door shut behind him. He stopped short and listened 
with sudden cunning. Then he found the stairway in the 
silent darkness, and began the slow and labored descent. 


336 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Not fifteen minutes afterwards, Joe Heffler appeared 
under the dingy street lamp, and crept cautiously up 
the stairs. He had seen from below that her window was 
dark. In his own little hall room he lit his light and, 
with the same match, his pipe. He was in no mood for 
sleep. Throughout the evening he had been mingling 
with the strikers in saloons and on the streets. He had 
come home at last when there was none left to listen to. 
Now he was putting together, piece by piece, the things 
he had heard. Suddenly he stopped and listened breath- 
lessly. The faint knock at his door was repeated with 
nervous insistence. 

“Joe,” came a weak voice. 

He opened the door cautiously, and she, leaning against 
it, came with it and into his arms. Without a word he 
supported her, clinging to him, back across the hall and 
into the still dark room. Steering his way carefully to 
the couch by the window, he unfastened her arms, which 
seemed unwilling to let him go. Then he found the 
button and turned on the lights. He looked about him 
at the debris of the table and picture, and then at her 
chalky-white face. 

“ Rough-house,” he remarked good-humoredly. 

“I — I fainted, I guess — I fainted/’ she said with a 
pitiful smile. 

“ What was the row?” asked Heffler, still peering about 
the room with a puzzled grin. 

The woman bolstered herself up by her arm and stared 
at the disorder. 

“ I dunno, Joe,” she said. “ He had a good deal to drink. 
Perhaps he got mad. I dunno,” she repeated wearily. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 337 


Heffler glanced at the door leading into the next room. 

“Where’s your sister?” he asked suspiciously. “She 
must ’ve heard the noise.” 

“ She ain’t there. She’s out of town looking for a job. 
That’s what I’ll have to do now, I guess.” 

She raised herself with a sudden jerky movement. 

“Oh, Joe!” she cried. “The table. It’s there. I did 
it. The table. Open it up.” 

Heffler sprang forward and seized the table top. 

“ This side,” she called. “ There! In the pocket.” 

With an exclamation of triumph Heffler held up the 
wrinkled piece of paper, and studied the notes that were 
scratched unevenly opposite his questions. He passed 
two entries with nods as if he had expected the answers. 
At the third he turned excitedly. 

“Our crowd stock. Jethro and Neely two hundred 
and fifty — four hundred. What’s the four hundred?” 
Heffler’s voice was eager. 

“Mr. Hubbard was ready to pay that, but they got 
’em for two-fifty.” 

“Mean little shrimps! What does this ‘ close half’ 
mean at the bottom?” 

“He said they’d close half the shops when they got 
’em,” she answered. “Then he said something or other 
about Westbury.” 

“Can’t you remember what he said?” he asked roughly. 

She shook her head. 

“No,” she said weakly. “I can’t.” 

Heffler sat down with his back to her. He began to 
write carefully upon the back of an envelope, with a 
pencil he had found on the floor by the chair. The 


338 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


woman stared at the outline of him. He had not spoken 
a tender word to her. He seemed to care nothing for 
her sacrifice. He had merely used her to get the facts 
from Mr. Brett. She weakened quickly and, sinking 
back on the couch, she hid her face from him. 

“You’re sure that’s all?” he asked, as he came to the 
end. 

“Yes,” came the low, stifled answer. 

He folded up the paper and put it carefully in an inside 
pocket, as he arose and turned toward her. 

“That was a good job,” he remarked more to himself 
than to her. “How d’ye feel?” he asked her hesitatingly. 

“ Rotten,” she said indifferently, turning her head back 
and facing him. “I’m going to get up in a minute and 
start packing. I’m going away in the morning. You 
can run along now, Joe. Good-by, if I don’t see you 
in the morning, and good luck.” 

Heffler slowly shifted his weight from one foot to the 
other and smiled cheerfully. 

“I’m not going along,” he remarked with considerable 
decision, “and you aren’t going to do any packing. I 
guess you’d better go in the morning, but just now you’re 
going to tell me what to pack and then you’re going to 
sleep. I’ll wake you in time to see if it’s 0. K. Then 
we’ll get a license and get married. You’ll go to my 
aunt’s in New Haven and I’ll follow you as soon’s I 
can.” 

Wonderment, doubt, and joy struggled upon Gerty 
Smith’s face as she raised herself quickly on her arm. 

“Married?” she cried. “Married, Joe? You marry 
me? Oh, Joe!” She fell back and, hiding her face in 



With an exclamation of triumph Heffler held up the 
wrinkled piece of paper." 


* 















































































































































THE BALANCE OF POWER 339 


a cushion, she wept with great convulsive sobs of happi- 
ness that shook her entire body. 

Heffler ran his hand nervously through his hair. Then 
he went to her and, sitting beside her, he lifted her until 
she sat with her head leaning against his shoulder and 
with her waist held awkwardly in the crook of his arm. 

“Shut off yer crying/’ he said appealingly. “Now we 
haven’t either of us been tin angels, but we’re going to 
be respectable together, see? And we’ll make good, you 
and me. It isn’t what you have been that counts, but 
what y’are and what you’re going to be. How old are 
you?” 

“Twenty-eight.” 

“Well, I’m thirty-four. Just about time to get a 
second wind. And say, we haven’t merely been told 
that it don’t pay to go to the devil. We know. And 
some time,” Heffler’s voice grew in fervor, “years from 
now, we’ll come back here to John Gilbert and we’ll say to 
him, ‘ We’re just as square and straight and on the level 
as you are,’ we’ll say to him; and when we can tell him 
that I’ll be satisfied. I’d rather have him shake hands 
with me on earth than go to heaven when I die.” 

She looked up at him through her tears. 

“You’re a brick, Joe,” she said. 

“So’re you, little woman.” He kissed her twice ten- 
derly. Then he made her lie down and tell him what 
to do with her things. When he understood he picked 
her up and staggered, with her in his arms, back through 
the dark hall. There he bathed her head and opened his 
own bed invitingly for her. Then he lit his pipe once 
more, and, whistling merrily, he left her and went to 


340 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


work in her dismantled room. He was glad, as he looked 
about him, that they lived only one flight up, with a store 
beneath them. Joe Heffler could pack like a woman, but 
the noise he made was that of a man. 

He was still there when the sun mingled its first light 
garishly with that of the street lamps. At seven o’clock 
he rapped hesitantly at his own door until she answered. 
Then he went back, leaving the door of her room open. 
He could hear her moving about. She was humming. It 
was the “ Wedding March,” but Heffler did not know it. 
He only realized that she was happy, and he whistled 
“Good-morning, Carrie” softly in reply. 

“But the pictures, Joe, and the table and ” she 

started to say as she glanced about the bare room. 

“He put up for those. Let him have ’em. We’re 
going to start new.” 

“But ” she objected, looking about at the only 

valuable things she had ever owned. Her glance came 
back to him. She held out her hand. 

“You’re the right sort, Joe. I don’t want ’em.” 

Joe Heffler soon disappeared into his own room. 
When he returned he bore a bulky, irregular bundle, 
which he placed almost tenderly upon her trunk. 

“What’s that?” she asked. 

“Your wedding present,” he said shortly. “It’s a 
tilting water pitcher,” he added, looking away. 

Gerty Smith put both arms about him, locking his own 
arms to his sides. Her face was very close to his. 

“The thing you won that night at the Fair?” she 
asked. 

“The night he gave me a chance.” There was a set- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 341 


tied look about Heffler’s chin, a new look of confidence 
in his face and manner. “It's better’n a ring for us, 
Gerty. You’re going to take it along. It was the be- 
ginning, Gerty, and we aren’t ever going back on it, 
are we?” 

She shook her head, and there were tears in her eyes 
for the second time that day, although Gerty Smith 
had always believed that tears were something to be 
despised. She could not speak, but her lips seemed to 
tell him that everything was all right, eternally all right. 

It was ten o’clock when they sat down to a meager 
breakfast at the railroad-station restaurant. They called 
it their wedding breakfast, for, after all, she wore a ring 
on her second finger, a ring that Heffler himself had 
worn until that morning. 

“I’ll look after your sister,” he said as they hurried 
to the train. 

“And you’ll come on soon, Joe?” 

“Soon’s I can, sure thing.” 

With new strength he brushed aside the brakeman, 
to help her up the steps. She nodded a good-by to him 
from the platform. She wished to wave, but she could 
not, because she had a bag in one hand, while the other 
arm was tightly bound about the tilting water pitcher. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE COLONEL REASONS WITH MR. TUBB 

W HEN the woman who did the Colonel's washing 
and mending came in at his back door that 
Friday afternoon, she stopped suddenly on the 
threshold. Her lower jaw dropped until her false teeth 
slipped, and she was forced to close her mouth quickly to 
avoid disaster. Her eyes bulged in a frightened stare and 
the bundle of mending dropped from her hand. There, 
in the middle of the kitchen, was the Colonel, dressed 
in flannel shirt, with sleeves half rolled up, and worn 
buckskins. On his feet were the decorated moccasins 
that usually hung over the fireplace. About his waist 
was a cartridge belt and on his head a torn sombrero. 
His glasses were off and his eyes seemed to have a crazy 
brightness in them. His hands flourished two rusty 
cavalry revolvers, and he was swaying back and forth on 
his rheumatic legs, muttering a strange gibberish of words. 
When the bundle dropped the Colonel stopped and, see- 
ing her, he chuckled and looked embarrassed. 

“IPs all right, Mary,” he said. “Jest havin' mem- 
ories. Whatche got in yer pack?” 

“Mendin',” said Mary, and then, like a boy who limps 
when he has a toothache, she tiptoed over to the table 
and laid the bundle down, never once taking her eyes 
from the Colonel. 


342 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


34S 


The veteran watched her, partly amused and partly 
bothered at her discovery. 

“Wore some o’ these togs fer years, Mary,” he said in 
a sort of shamefaced explanation. 

“Ye did, sir,” said Mary, curiosity gradually overcom- 
ing her fear, “and the pistols, too, sir?” 

“ We et with ’em out there,” said the Colonel solemnly. 

“Holy Virgin,” said Mary, crossing herself. “And the 
hoochee-koochee dance, too?” she inquired doubtfully 
after a moment. 

“Regular,” said the Colonel without a smile, “after 
meals.” 

“It must be a tumble place,” said Mary, shaking her 
head and starting for the door. 

“Ye'd better not speak of it, Mary. Folks wouldn’t 
savvey,” said the Colonel as he followed her. 

“Indade and I won’t. Oi like ye too well fer that. 
But it must be a tumble place,” and Mary departed, 
still shaking her head. And that night she wrote a long 
letter of solemn warning against the ways of the West, 
to her brother, who had recently gone to Buffalo. 

The Colonel had not felt so much at home in years as 
he did that afternoon. He hummed old songs in growling 
monotone. He drew forth an old leather trunk, bound 
with heavy metal, that had come down the Missouri 
years before. He remembered how he and his pardner 
had stood on the dock and argued as to whether or not 
they would take that particular boat, and how finally 
they had thrown up a coin to decide it. The coin had 
turned against their going aboard, but they had been 
too late to get this trunk off the boat. The boat had 


344 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


gone down with all on board, some days later. The 
trunk had been thrown up on the river bank, and, about 
a year afterwards, he had bought it back for about five 
times its worth. There was nothing in it now but some 
soiled and yellow papers and a few trinkets, but to him 
it stood for nearly twenty years of hardship and adven- 
ture. The old trunk was perhaps the last possession he 
had that he would have parted with. 

Next, he gathered up the four corners of a faded table 
cover, jumbling together in a heap all the decorations 
and dust that had been littered upon it, and carried the 
improvised bundle into an adjoining room. Then he 
returned and pulled the table nearer the wall by the 
fireplace. Ransacking one of the drawers, he brought 
forth a worn pack of cards, and spent half an hour doing 
old tricks with them that he had almost forgotten in the 
lapse of years. At last he rose and went out into the 
kitchen to prepare supper. The Colonel preferred 
“gettuT his own grub” to having any “women folks” 
around the house. When he tired of his own cooking 
he tramped down to the Hampstead House, and grumbled 
at its well-served dinners. 

The bell rang three or four times irritatingly, and the 
Colonel, forgetting his appearance in the excitement of 
trying to broil a steak and to answer a doorbell at the 
same time, hobbled, muttering, to the door. The won- 
derment on Billy McNish’s face changed quickly to un- 
controlled laughter, and the Colonel, suddenly conscious 
of the spectacle he was to anyone passing by, caught 
Billy’s shoulder, and fairly dragged the prospective mayor 
of Hampstead into the vestibule. This done and the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 345 


door closed, he turned his back on Billy with pretended 
anger and returned to the kitchen. Billy followed con- 
tritely and seated himself upon the wood-box. 

“Couldn’t help it, Colonel,” he remarked. “You look 
like a masquerade ball.” 

The veteran chuckled over the sizzling steak. 

“Reckon I might create a sensation ef I went down- 
town this way. But it might be named 1 disturbin’ the 
peace’ ef some p’liceman come out of a s’loon by accident 
an’ saw me. Reckon I’d try it ef it wasn’t fer the women 
folks. I’d likely git kissed a dozen times on the way to 
the post-office. Curious ’bout the way women hitch onto 
freaks, ain’t it? Most of ’em ’ll pass a good square man 
whose head is stuck on straight, an’ tie up in bunches 
’round some sword-swallowin’ hero, er a long-haired, long- 
eared poet, er a collidge prifesser thet lectures on ‘Are 
We Atoms er Atomizers?’ an’ gives it up. ’S’pose it’s a 
kind o’ prifessional bond o’ union. Most women hev 
got a streak of the bunco steerer in ’em, an’ they jest 
natch’rally join up with those thet ’re workin’ the same 
thing as a trade.” 

Billy changed the subject. He was in no mood for 
discourses on the Colonel’s favorite topic. 

“Can you come up to the house to-morrow morning 
about ten?” he asked. 

“ Reckon so,” responded the Colonel with a half wink, 
“ef I survive the evenin’s performance.” He gazed 
down at his buckskins and waited for Billy to become 
inquisitive. He had not long to wait. 

“What performance?” Billy scrutinized the strange 
clothes again, and once more he laughed. “What’s the 


346 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


game, Colonel? Who’re you going to impress with 
those?” 

Colonel Mead transferred the steak to a waiting platter. 
When this operation had been accomplished he turned 
with a sigh of relief and eyed the younger man. 

“One Mister Tubb is comin , up this trail to-night,” 
he chuckled. “ Pve tried ev’ry kind o’ Eastern reasonin’ 
with him. Eve told him how good he wuz an' how 
wicked he wuz. Eve showed him how dead right he 
wuz an’ how plumb wrong he wuz. Eve argyed with 
him till my tongue's black and blue. I've patted him 
on the back till my left hand’s blistered. An’ I’ve shook 
hands with him till my right hand smells o’ greens an’ 
onions continuous. Now I’m goin’ to follow your lead 
an’ reason with him Western. He may buck, but I 
reckon I’ll keep my promise. I told him I thought he’d 
hev an int’restin’ evenin’.” 

The Colonel chuckled again prophetically. Billy shook 
with noiseless laughter. 

“Jove!” he cried. “Wish I could be here and see the 
fun. But I can’t. Got to be down*town all evening.” 

“May want ye in the p’lice court in the mornin’,” 
said the Colonel, leading the way with the steak into the 
dining-room — Billy following along cheerfully, a dish in 
each hand. “Better wash up an’ hev a bite with me, 
now ye’re here. Mebbe ye won’t never hev another 
chance,” the Colonel added with jocular mournfulness. 
“I’m a des’prite man.” 

Billy was voluble with regrets. He had dropped in 
merely to tell the Colonel about the next morning. He 
had already stayed longer than he had intended to. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 347 


The Colonel was a hard man to get away from, Billy 
said, and he thought he had better hurry along immedi- 
ately, or he would actually yield to temptation and stay. 

The veteran did not go to the door with him. He sat 
down at the table and began his solitary meal before 
Billy finished his explanations. When he heard the 
front door close he shook his head. 

“Curious ’bout Billy,” he muttered to himself. “He’d 
be real tol’rable ef he didn’t hev them soft turns. He’s 
so infernal nice t’ev’rybody thet ye hev to throw up a 
cent to make up yer mind whether ye’re his best friend or 
his worst enemy.” 

It was a few minutes after half-past seven when Mr. 
Tubb was received in the vestibule, which the Colonel 
had maliciously left dark. It was not until they entered 
the sitting-room together, therefore, that the grocer 
stopped short in his greeting and stared uneasily at the 
metamorphosed Colonel. 

“’Declare!” he ejaculated, rubbing his thin chin with 
his thumb and first finger. He had even forgotten the 
clothes he wore. Mr. Tubb’s lank figure was attired in 
the clothes which usually appeared only once a week in 
his pew at the Baptist church. Mr. Tubb liked to 
remark that he was fifty or more years young. On Sun- 
days and on special occasions he proved the assertion 
by his clothes; clothes with broad, padded shoulders and 
slender waist; clothes that pulled tightly over the per- 
ceptible bend in his back and wrinkled across his narrow 
chest; ready-made clothes, of course, for Mr. Tubb did 
not believe in wasting his hard-earned and carefully 
saved money in tailors’ bills. He looked uncomfortable 


348 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


and he felt uncomfortable, but he considered that this 
was one of the ways by which mankind, on one day of 
the week, do penance for their sins of the other six days. 
When it is said, therefore, that Mr. Tubb had forgotten 
his clothes as he stared at the Colonel, no better descrip- 
tion of his complete astonishment is possible. 

“Told ye I’d show ye somethin’ Western,” chuckled 
the Colonel. 

“Where’d ye get ’em?” asked Mr. Tubb slowly. 

“Well, the shirt I bought in Albuquerque,” said the 
Colonel reminiscently, motioning the grocer to a chair, 
“an’ the buckskins I took off’n Tony Mclntire, the des- 
perado, after said Tony had been scalped by Injuns near 
Las Vegas. The moccasins b’longed to a Nez Percy 
buck ’fore he died a vi’lent death by one o’ these here 
pistols. I jest natch’rally found the sombrero in the 
trail one day.” 

“’Declare!” repeated Mr. Tubb, eyeing the Colonel 
with a mixture of doubt and admiration. Mr. Tubb had 
always agreed readily with those doubting Thomases of 
Hampstead, who declared that Colonel Mead had never 
been farther west than Chicago in his life; who observed 
that Colonel Mead’s speech was more that of a New 
Englander than that of a Westerner — which was natural 
enough if they had remembered that the Colonel had 
lived more than half of his life in Connecticut; and who 
said that they had heard that Colonel Mead had bought 
all of his curios at a side-street store in New York. But, 
with the Colonel before him and with one of the Colonel’s 
hands resting lightly on the butt of a pistol, Mr. Tubb 
would have admitted that Buffalo Bill was a Westerner 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 349 


of comparatively little distinction. Mr. Tubb glanced 
about the dimly lighted room, and wished from the 
bottom of his heart that the pistols might be put away 
in some far-off bureau drawer. Mr. Tubb had a revolver 
at home, which he kept behind locked doors at night 
for use in case of burglars. But he never had fired it, 
and indeed he never had touched the trigger when the 
thing was loaded. When he moved it he always gripped 
the last inch of the butt and shut his eyes. 

“ I can't stay very long," he said, his thumbs and fore- 
finger busy now with his sallow neck. “Got a date with 
Captain Merrivale at nine-thirty." Mr. Tubb realized 
immediately that this admission was a mistake, and he 
hurried on. “I got a good joke on Captain Merrivale 
the other day," he continued. “You know old Doctor 
Ferguson that died last week? Well, I was talkin' to 
Merrivale next day after the Doc. died, and Merrivale 
he allowed that Ferguson was a good man and that he 
was mighty surprised to learn that the old feller had 
nigger blood in him. ‘Nigger blood?' says I. ‘Can't 
be,’ says I. He picks up the News , sober as a jedge, 
and hands it over to me. ‘ Read that,' he says. ‘ Don't 
it say, clear as print can make it, that the old Doctor 
was an octogenarian?' 'Course I allowed that it did, 
and I tried not to laugh 'cause it might 've hurt his feel- 
in's. He's sensitive, Merrivale is. But it was the best 
joke on Merrivale I’ve heard in a month o' Sundays." 

Mr. Tubb tittered in high falsetto. The Colonel only 
grunted. 

“An' thet’s Hampstead's head Water Commiss’ner," he 
grumbled as he arose and went across to the old trunk. 


350 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“Ef y’ain’t goin’ to patronize my diggin’s only till 
nine-thirty,” he said briskly, “we’ll proceed instanter.” 

The grocer was always ready to agree to anything, 
and never more so than now. The Colonel squatted 
beside the open trunk, and drew from it various objects, 
from a handful of broken arrows to a small string of 
beads. It was not very long before Mr. Tubb had for- 
gotten his uneasiness and was bending forward, his 
mouth wide open with interest. Each new memento 
which the Colonel handed him had its story, and the 
Colonel, who had not rummaged through the old trunk 
before in years, became so interested himself that he 
lost track of the time, and forgot that there was any 
such concern as Hardy & Son or any such undecided, 
unreasonable person as this Mr. Tubb, who listened and 
who, now and then, had the temerity to interrupt the 
flow of reminiscence. The little clock on the mantel, 
striking nine, brought the Colonel at last to his senses. 
He had less than a half-hour left in which to reason with 
Mr. Tubb. 

“Talked so much my jaw aches,” he remarked, break- 
ing off in the middle of a long yarn. “Reckon y’are 
plumb petered out. What d’ye say to a little two- 
handed poker fer a change?” 

Mr. Tubb hitched backward in his chair and looked 
across at the little table and the cards. He had noticed 
them when he entered the room. 

“Well, ye see,” he said with apparent hesitation, “I 
don’t play poker.” 

“Ye don’t?” Surprise and scorn were in the Colonel’s 
tone. “Why, I wouldn’t ’a’ thought thar wuz a man 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 351 


under the flag thet didn’t know the nash’nal game. 
What ’ll we tackle? Old Maid?” 

“I mean to say,” added Mr.Tubb lamely, “not usually.” 

The Colonel for answer took a chair by the table and 
waved his hand toward the chair opposite, next to the 
wall. Mr. Tubb arose doubtfully. 

“I mean I ain’t used to playin’ for money. I’m a 
church member, ye know,” he remarked, as if in self- 
defense, as he sat down. 

“Ye don’t say?” said the Colonel, putting down the 
cards he had been shuffling. “Well, I reckon I kin find 
some chips ef I dig deep enough.” He started to rise 
laboriously. Mr. Tubb picked up the cards. 

“At least not for high stakes,” he added. 

“How about penny ante?” suggested the Colonel, 
sinking back in his chair. 

“At least not for more’n a quarter,” added Mr. Tubb 
again, patting the cards affectionately. The Colonel 
smiled in spite of himself. Mr. Tubb put down the 
cards and turned cautiously toward the wall behind him. 

“Pretty picture,” he said apologetically. 

The Colonel nodded grimly. “ Better’n a mirror, ain’t 
it?” 

Mr. Tubb proceeded to look through the cards care- 
fully. 

“Interestin’ cards,” he remarked. 

The Colonel nodded again. 

“ Got ’em from thet forchune teller down New Orleens, 
the same one I told ye ’bout; Fairy Ellen they called 
her. Didn’t tell ye ’bout how she told Leftenant Wood’s 
forchune, did I?” 


352 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Mr. Tubb, engaged in dealing, said that he did not 
remember the story. The Colonel scrutinized his cards. 

“Four,” he said laconically. “You see, Pd know’d 
Fairy Ellen fer years,” he went on. “Run acrost her 
first in San Antonio, and later Pd found her in New 
Orleens. So, when we landed thar fer a day one Spring, 
and Pd put Bill Slosson and young Lef tenant Wood onto 
all the trails in town, an’ we wuz a-goin’ back to the boat, 
I happened to remember thet Pd plumb fergot Fairy 
Ellen. We hed jest about time an’, bein’ the lead mule, 
I steered ’em down into the picayune back alley whar 
she did business. It wuz a dirty cabin, and she wuz 
an old greaser woman with a complexion like a moldy 
cheese and a figger like a question mark. I never be- 
lieved in forchune tellin’ till I saw her in San Antonio, 
but she cert’nly marked out my trail fer me, even to the 
bonanza I struck in Colorado.” 

“Wish she was here,” put in Mr. Tubb, with a rueful 
attempt to be jocular as the Colonel drew in a little pile 
of silver. “P’raps she’d tell me what you’re goin’ to 
hold next hand.” 

“Well, as I wuz recallin’,” went on the Colonel, deal- 
ing, “ I took the boys ’round thar, and she took our dol- 
lars an’ mumbled a lot o’ pigeon Spanish. She assayed 
Slosson’s hand all right an’ told him a lot o’ things he 
didn’t want to know, includin’ the fact that he would 
be killed finally by dark-faced furriners. I’ve been 
waitin’ fer years a-watchin’ Slosson, an’ when he wuz 
ordered to the Phillipians I said it wuz all over. An’ it 
wuz. He wuz shot in the first fight he got into. When 
she come to the Leftenant ” 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 353 


Mr. Tubb threw down his cards with obvious irritation. 

“Can’t you hold anythin’ at all but three of a kind?” 
he asked peevishly. 

“Yes,” returned the Colonel complacently. “Reckon I 
kin hold my temper an’ my payshunts, friend, winnin’ er 
losin’. But — goin’ on with the story, which don’t seem 
to int’rest you none — when she come to the Leftenant she 
looked fer a minute; then she shook her head. She jest 
wouldn’t tell his, and after we’d argued and threatened 
and got mad and left, she stood thar and watched us 
down the street. The other two wuz laughin’, but I 
thought I smelled somethin’ int’restin’, and I told ’em 
thet I’d left somethin’, I’ve fergotten now what, and I 
sneaked back. She wuz standin’ right whar we’d left 
her and ” 

The Colonel stopped short and leaned forward, his 
body suddenly tense. Mr. Tubb finished dealing and 
eyed his hand with unusual care. 

“Well?” he asked nervously, without looking up. 
“What — what happened then?” 

The Colonel settled back in his chair. He did not 
look at his cards. 

“Reckon I’m out o’ this hand,” he remarked, his eyes 
still narrowed in scrutiny of the grocer’s flushed face. 
“Let’s see,” he went on, “I’d just gone back to Fairy 
Ellen. Well, I says to her: ‘Why didn’t ye tell his 
forchune, Fairy?’ says I. ‘Because,’ says she, and her 
voice sounded like a cowboy’s the mornin’ after a spree, 
hard and tired like, ‘he ain’t got half an hour to live.’ 
I didn’t ejaculate a word. I jest worked my legs fer 
the dock. I got thar jest as Slosson an’ the Leftenant 


354 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


was crossin’ the gang-plank. ‘Leftenant,’ I called out 
like a fool, and he stopped an’ Slosson went on.” 

The Colonel paused to raise Mr. Tubb beyond the 
limit of the grocer’s cautious willingness to take risks, 
and immediately drew in a considerable “pot,” with a 
hand composed chiefly of two jacks. 

“Then, all of a sudden,” he went on mechanically, as 
if nothing had happened, “a spar got loose up above an’ 
I saw it fall, an’ the young feller never know’d what hit 
him. Old Fairy Ellen wuz right. The minute she told 
me, I’d know’d thar wuzn’t any more chance fer him 
then thar is fer a man ridin’ a buckin’ bronco up Marshall 
Pass.” 

“Good story,” said Mr. Tubb, his mind on the game 
and far away from Fairy Ellen of New Orleans. 

It was astonishing to see how interested Mr. Tubb had 
become in the turn of the cards, and how grudgingly he 
brought forth from his trousers pocket at last — when 
his silver was exhausted — the green roll of bills, and how 
his thin, sallow cheeks flushed and how his eyes grew 
feverishly bright, and how strained and tense the silence 
seemed when the Colonel’s story was finished — silence 
broken only by the steady slap of the cards, the jingle 
of silver and an occasional grunt of joy or despair from 
the ecstatic or suffering grocer. The Colonel seemed to 
be playing carelessly while he was talking, and even in 
the silence he seemed to watch Mr. Tubb more closely 
than the cards. But he won almost steadily, and the 
meager assortment of silver which he had deposited at 
his left hand grew rapidly with the additions of Mr. 
Tubb’s quarters and half dollars and bank notes. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


355 


“Reckon Pm hevin’ the luck,” he remarked genially, 
as the half hour was struck by the little clock on the 
mantel. Mr. Tubb did not seem to hear the clock. 

“Three,” he said, staring, fascinated, at the cards. 

“But it’s a long lane without any turnin’,” added the 
Colonel. Again the Colonel won and Mr. Tubb mut- 
tered a single word in comment. 

“Fer a Baptist,” remarked the Colonel reflectively, as 
Mr. Tubb dealt the cards, “thet might be considered 

* strong langwidge.’ Two,” he added, looking over his 
hand. 

Mr. Tubb slapped the Colonel’s two cards on the table 
with angry force. Then he shifted the cards nervously 
in his hand. 

“I’ll take four,” he said. He added four cards to his 
remaining one. Then he looked up and into the mouths 
of two cavalry pistols. 

Mr. Tubb jumped back so suddenly that he nearly 
upset both the table and himself. He thought he shouted 

* Murder!’ at the top of his voice, but, as a matter of fact, 
he merely whispered the word. The pack of cards 
dropped from his shaking hand and built scattering 
pyramids of themselves upon the floor. His face lost 
even its sallow color and he swallowed noisily. 

“Let’s see them cards,” growled the Colonel. 

Mr. Tubb hastened to obey. The four cards were aces. 

“Ye took ’em from the bottom of the pack. Ye’ve 
done it twice afore, only I wuzn’t plumb certain ’bout 
it afore.” 

The Colonel lowered the pistols to the table. 

“Ye’re a sweet and lovely church member, ain’t ye?” 


356 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


he went on, looking aggressively at Mr. Tubb, whose 
thumb and forefinger had returned nervously to his 
chin. “ Lord, won’t this make talk fer the good Christian 
women folks thet trades at yer store! Lord, won’t they 
fight to see which one can tell it first an’ which one can 
tell it worst! An’, Lord, won’t yer friend Butterson’s 
store look like a tornado’d struck it, after they’ve sent 
him all yer orders!” 

“Ye wouldn’t tell ’em,” gasped Mr. Tubb. 

“Seems like a powerful pity, don’t it?” said the Colonel 
soberly. “ But it sure looks to me like it wuz my public 
duty. A man thet ’ll cheat at cards ’ll cheat at groceries. 
Lord, I wonder what the Baptist church ’ll do!” 

“If ’twasn’t for the pistols,” blustered Mr. Tubb, 
anger momentarily getting the better of his fear, “I’d 
knock you down.” 

The Colonel grinned benevolently. 

“I’ve lived years enough in this wicked but cowardly 
world, m’ friend,” he remarked, “to know thet a man 
thet talks ’bout them thet he’s knocked down er is goin’ 
to knock down, never has an’ never will. Thar’s most 
alluz an ‘if’ in the way.” 

“I thought I was playin’ with a gentleman,” stuttered 
Mr. Tubb. 

“I wuz plumb sure I wuzn’t,” retorted the Colonel. 
“So we wuz both right.” 

“But it ’ll ruin me,” sobbed Mr. Tubb, giving way to 
nasal moans. 

The Colonel pulled at his mustaches, his hand care- 
fully covering his mouth. 

“It sure do look that way,” he remarked judicially. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 357 


“But don’t git lackrimose ’bout it. P’raps I might be 
reasoned with.” 

Mr. Tubb looked up with a sudden hopefulness that 
nearly upset the Colonel. 

“What do ye mean?” he asked. 

“Well,” the Colonel continued. “We might come to 
a compr’mise. I’ve been wantin’ somethin’ o’ you fer 
more’n a month, an’ now ye’re wantin’ somethin’ o’ me. 
I’ll tell ye. Ef ye’ll ferget to see Captain Merrivale to- 
night, an’ ef ye’ll come back here inside o’ half an hour 
with yer Hardy stock, to be left in my safe keepin’ till 
I think it’s judicious fer ye to hev it again, p’raps I 
might overcome my scruples ’bout spreadin’ this here 
incident. What d’ye say?” 

Mr. Tubb looked at the Colonel through narrowed 
eyes, and the color returned slowly to his face. 

“It was a trick,” he declared weakly. 

“Yes.” The Colonel nodded in the direction of the 
four aces. “ It wuz a dirty, low-down trick an’ ye didn’t 
even do it clever.” 

Mr. Tubb stumbled to his feet and pulled his coat down 
to its uncomfortably proper position. He realized sadly 
that he could never wear his best clothes to church again 
with a devout, religious feeling. 

“All right,” he said. 

“An’ this here money,” continued the Colonel, point- 
ing to the pile that had accumulated on his side of the 
table, “I calc’late to give to the mish’nary fund o’ the 
Baptist church, in yer name an’ mine, fer the good o’ 
the heathen. An’ I want to give ye a bit of advice. Don’t 
ever try that trick again. It ain’t easy to lose, but it’s a 


358 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


derned sight more ’Murrican to lose like a man than to 
win like a sneak. Reckon I’ve kept my word/’ he 
added as they moved toward the door. “IPs been an 
int’restin’ evenin’.” 

When Mr. Tubb had gone the Colonel snapped the 
pistols harmlessly three or four times, and smiled to 
himself. 

“Reckon he’ll come back,” he muttered. He was 
right. Mr. Tubb had six minutes to spare when he 
rang the Colonel’s doorbell for the second time that 
night. 

The veteran threw the certificates into the old trunk 
and sat down to read the News. Usually he spent the 
better part of the evening with his paper, but to-night 
he had almost forgotten it, and he handled it now with 
apologetic eagerness, as if it were a friend he had ignored. 
As he turned a flapping page, an advertisement, printed 
in large type, caught his eye. He uttered an exclama- 
tion as he stared at it. Then he held it at various dis- 
tances, to assure himself that his eyes had not played him 
a trick. It announced a mass meeting for men at the 
Hampstead Opera House on the following, Saturday, 
night. It stated simply that Judge Morrison would pre- 
side, and that the speakers would be Mr. McNish, Demo- 
cratic candidate for mayor, and John Gilbert, general 
manager of Hardy & Son, whose respective subjects 
would be, “Why Hampstead Ought to Be a Democratic 
City” — and “The Strike and Politics.” In the news 
column opposite the advertisement, to which the Colonel’s 
eyes wandered in their amazement, was the short inter- 
view with Gilbert, all in capitals and double-leaded. The 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 359 


Colonel dropped the paper to his side, and brought his 
right fist down upon the rearranged table, with a force 
that made the lamp-light jump and flicker weirdly. 

“Thet’s business/’ he muttered. “Reckon he’s found 
out more’n ” 

He was interrupted by the violent ringing of his bell 
and a heavy tattoo of knocks upon the door. He hur- 
ried through the vestibule, still clutching the paper in 
his left hand. 

“Jest saw it in the News” he declared excitedly, as 
Gilbert and Billy followed him into the sitting-room. 

“They’ve seen it, too,” Billy broke in, eager to tell 
the news, “and they’ve probably heard more. They’ve 
got a gang of Dagoes and Polocks tearing up Broad Street 
already. They’ll be working there all night.” 

“We’re coming to the finish of our fight, Colonel,” 
Gilbert remarked, “and we’re going to win. How about 
Tubb, Colonel?” 

The Colonel grinned reminiscently as they drew up 
chairs. 

“Well,” he said. “I separated him from his stock. 
It’s in the trunk yander. An’ we’re makin’ a joint con- 
tribution to the Baptist Mish’nary Society. But thar 
ain’t any story, boys. Ye see, I paid him fer the stock 
by say in’ I’d keep my mouth shet.” 

Billy frowned at the mystery, but Gilbert merely eyed 
the Colonel with narrowed, smiling eyes. 

“Mr. McNish wants you to help him reason with two 
or three more to-morrow morning,” he drawled, leaning 
back in his chair until it creaked warningly under his 
weight. “That’s the only loop-hole they’ve got now— 


360 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


to get control before to-morrow night. Ten o'clock, 
wasn't it, Billy?" 

Billy nodded. 

“No rest fer the wicked an' less fer the pious," grum- 
bled the Colonel. “ But what hev ye found out, to make 
ye so brash about this meetin'?" 

Gilbert allowed the chair to settle back and sprawled, 
his long legs sticking out straight, his hands sunk deep 
in his pockets. 

“ We've got Neely's signed statement of that bribing 
business." 

The Colonel whistled. 

“How'd ye do it?" he asked with some awe. 

“Peter Lumpkin did most of it. I helped some. 
Neely seems glad to get it off his mind. It's worried 
him. He's more of a man than I thought he was. Jethro 
was the other one, of course." 

“And we’ve the signed story of the engineer who made 
the false report on the reservoir deal,” put in Billy. 

“Lord!" ejaculated the Colonel, pulling his long mus- 
taches in open wonderment. “An’ I didn't know any- 
thin' about it. How'd ye do thet?" 

“Joe Heffler, chiefly," said Gilbert slowly. “He knew 
him. He was clerk in the office for a time, you know. 
Billy helped a good deal. That's what we've been doing 
to-night." 

“And we know," added Billy, who had been counting 
on his fingers, “that Conlin and Martin Jethro and Tom 
Grady were all at Mr. Hubbard's to-night." 

“Say," grumbled the Colonel, “did ye hev anybody 
listenin' to me an' Tubb to-night? Reckon I ought to've 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 361 


gone ’round the shack careful aforehand. An’ who 
found thet out?” 

Gilbert laughed heartily. 

“ Jimmy O’Rourke drove them there in a hack,” he 
said. “Yes, that’s a fact. Jimmy’s been driving hack 
three or four nights now, ever since Conlin got suspicious 
about walking to see his employers.” Gilbert paused. 
“They’re a pretty good crowd, the three of them — my 
‘ cabinet,’ as Jimmy calls them,” he added. “ I tell you, 
it’s great to have friends.” 

There was something in his tone that made both the 
Colonel and Billy stir uneasily and look away self-con- 
sciously. 

“It all depends on to-morrow night now,” Gilbert 
added again. “Think of it, Colonel. We started tilt- 
ing at windmills, but we were honest about it. And 

now ” His teeth shut with a sudden click. Then he 

smiled. “Well, I feel a good deal like that soldier your 
father tells about, Billy, who was always repeating just 
before a charge: ‘We’ll show ’em whether there’s a God 
in Israel or not.’ We’re going to bring about a new 
order of things in Hampstead. Lord knows, the town 
needs it.” 

“ ’ Course we are,” cried the suddenly optimistic Colonel. 
“Didn’t I say so all the time?” 

“I don’t see yet,” objected Billy peevishly, “how 
we’re going to change public opinion in one night.” 

Gilbert started to answer but the Colonel interrupted 
him. 

“Ef ye cross bridges so many times aforehand,” he 
said crossly, “ye’ll sure bust ’em down ’fore ye really 


362 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


come to ’em. But look here, boy/’ he went on, looking 
up at Gilbert, who had stretched himself lazily and risen, 
and who now stood towering above him, “sit close 
to-morrow an’ keep yer eye peeled constant. I ain’t 
afeard o’ threats usually, but thet hoss-thief of a Jethro’s 
sure got it in fer ye, and th’other crowd’s goin’ to be 
desp’rite now. It’s life an’ death with ’em.” 

Gilbert smiled down into the Colonel’s grizzled face 
and then grew sober as he saw the veteran’s earnestness. 

“I believe you’ve caught the disease from Joe,” he 
said. “He talks the same way. The thing’s getting on 
your nerve, Colonel.” 

But the veteran repeated his warning as he followed 
the two younger men to the door, and when he returned 
to the sitting-room, he stared at the little clock and 
shook his head solemnly. 

“Wish it wuz this time to-morrow night,” he muttered. 

When Gilbert, coming in from the chilly October mist, 
climbed the steps of the little house porch, he heard the 
door knob before him rattle. Someone within was try- 
ing to open the door, but the glue-like dampness had 
gripped the wood and held it tightly fastened. He 
caught the knob quickly and pushed the door, crackling, 
wide open. Then he leaped forward and picked up Clare 
Hardy, — who had been tugging at the knob, — from her 
knees where she had fallen. 

“I beg your pardon.” 

“It’s the first time I was ever on my knees to a man.” 

“And the last.” 

“You can’t tell when there are such masterful men,” 
she laughed as she brushed the dust from her dress. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 363 


“You — you were just going home?” he remarked in 
his embarrassment. 

“ How hospitable! No, I was just going to stay. I’ve 
been waiting for you.” 

“Oh,” he beamed doubtfully. “Where’s mother?” 

“Upstairs — worrying about you. Do you realize that 
it’s nearly midnight?” 

“I believe I do.” He was leading the way into the 
little parlor. 

“And that it’s improper for me to be here?” she added 
with a glint of her old tantalizing smile. 

“No, I don’t realize that.” 

“Well, it is,” she retorted so convincingly that it 
seemed to him that he was greatly to blame. He made 
up his mind immediately that propriety was the most 
senseless, unreasonable thing in the world. 

“And I’m going home” — his face grew tragic — “in a 
few minutes.” 

They both smiled. Then her face slowly became 
grave. 

“You made me forget.” And she hurried into the 
narrow hallway. 

“What made you remember?” he called. He felt 
instantly that the remark was the height of idiocy. She 
was very serious as she came back with some papers. 

“ You told me yesterday there was a deal of some kind 
that was dishonest, something about that street railway 
bill. Father was in that, and spoke of it the night it 
was passed. I was there with him, you know. I’ve 
found some papers, correspondence and copies of his 
letters. I want you to take them.” 


364 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


She did not look at him as she held the papers toward 
him. 

“ You'd trust them to me?” he asked in a low voice. 
He was thinking rapidly, trying to understand. 

“ You're silly,” she said with a nervous laugh. "Of 
course.” 

"Thank you,” he spoke evenly. "I— we don’t need 
them. I know all about it— enough, that is. We’ll 
elect Billy and save the shops for your father as well 
without this— this sacrifice of yours— as we could if I 
read the papers and used them.” 

She looked up at him so wonderingly, so pleadingly, 
and she came so near to him that he felt himself tremble 
with restraint. 

"But I want you to read them, Jack.” 

"It’s better not,” he said curtly, feeling himself weak- 
ening. "Was there anything else on your mind?” 

She looked away from him for a moment while he, for 
something to do, fumbled among the books on the table. 
Then she turned to him once more, firmly. 

" No, there was nothing else. I — I thought this would 
help you, but you’re probably right. No, you needn’t 
come with me. You’re tired, and it’s such a little way.” 

He went, nevertheless, guiding her down the walk 
hidden in the damp, misty darkness. 

"Are you really going to speak to-morrow night?” 

"It’s hard to believe it, isn’t it? Billy’s going to make 
the real speech. I wish you could hear him. Old 
Demosthenes will be jealous in his grave.” 

"And you?” 

"I believe I’m to read a few unpleasant facts. I’d 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 365 


have stage fright if I tried to talk from memory. Fd 
get everything hung on the wrong pegs.” 

He could not see the tenderness in her eyes as she 
looked up at him. 

“It will be hard for them,” she said after a moment. 

“That’s the woman of it,” he laughed shortly. “The 
under dog.” 

“I was thinking that they’d hate you for it.” 

“Probably,” he said. “But that doesn’t count. It’s 
the thing that counts, not me nor them nor any- 
body else.” 

At the porch he hesitated, as if there was something 
he wished to say and could not. He blundered awk- 
wardly, and thanked her three separate times, and said 
good-night twice, lingeringly. “I’m a fool,” he said to 
himself, as he walked slowly up the hill. “She couldn’t 
take those papers to Billy.” 

On his own porch again, he waited a moment before 
going in, staring down at the unnatural glow of light far 
away at the left. Men were working under torches on 
Broad Street, working frantically at the eleventh hour to 
keep the trivial promise the Street Railway Company 
had made to Hampstead. The light that dribbled through 
the blinds lit up the irregular features of his massive 
face, and in the glimmer the face was haggard. 

“Lucky Billy,” he whispered. 


CHAPTER XXI 


IN THE OLD GARDEN 

M RS. GILBERT, bustling about her little kitchen 
after the breakfast dishes had been cleared 
away, stopped occasionally and listened to the 
heavy tramp of feet overhead. At last she could endure 
it no longer and, washing the cake-batter from her hands, 
she toiled her way upstairs. 

“Oh, youTe here, are you?” she asked innocently. 
Upon a table in the little bedroom lay pen and ink- 
well and paper. Two or three scrawled sheets lay on 
the floor and Gilbert, his hair tousled, his face wrinkled 
into a frown, stood looking out of the window. The 
room was gray with smoke, and the cigar in his fingers 
was chewed into shreds. He turned and smiled a woe- 
begone smile in reply. 

“Is it all done?” she asked, as if she really thought it 
was. 

“Done?” Gilbert stretched out his long arms and 
yawned cavernously. “’Tisn’t begun. I walk up and 
down and say sentences just as I want them, and I sit 
down in front of a piece of paper and I can’t say them 
that way at all. It was funny at first, but the novelty’s 
wearing off.” 

He shook himself and started again his weary pacing. 
Mrs. Gilbert stood watching him thoughtfully. Then, 
366 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


367 


after first going over to the window and opening it to 
let the cool air rush in, she sat down at the table. 

“Now you say it, laddie,” she said, “and I'll write it.” 

Gilbert stared at her for a moment, nodded assent, 
and a second later the speech was begun. 

“I guess,” he drawled, when the first paragraph was 
completed, “the trouble was that I had to keep my fists 
doubled up to write that speech.” 

“You aren't actually going to say that, are you?” 
asked his mother, reading a sentence aloud. 

“Of course. It's the truth.” 

“But — I wish somehow you weren't in it at all, this 

hating and calling names and hurting people ” She 

hesitated a moment. Then she added vigorously: 
“ Don’t mind me. Women are inconsistent idiots. They 
love a man that will fight, but they don’t want a man 
they love to fight. Go on.” 

The weather bureau had prophesied rain and was 
probably disappointed, but the men of Hampstead, 
emerging from the dingy, cavernous dampness and 
lethargy of yesterday into the crisp, clear air, thanked 
God on their faces if not in their hearts. It was the kind 
of a day, as Gilshannon remarked, that “made everybody 
get up on their toes.” Gilshannon, as well as the other 
men on their way to work, read the posters announcing 
the meeting that night. He also listened attentively to 
remarks made by those who stopped and examined the 
broad white sheets, on which the ink was still wet. He 
noticed, moreover, that at eleven o’clock most of the 
posters had mysteriously disappeared. The latter fact 
became evident to hjm ; when, in answer to a call from 


368 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


one of his friends, he went to the vicinity of the Hardy 
shops as rapidly as a car would take him. 

It was as if the strikers had suddenly been let loose 
by iron hands which had held them. They were con- 
gregated in swaying, restless groups down Railroad Street 
and around the Hardy corner. The windows of blocks 
and tenements on either side were filled with more of 
them. The police station alone, near the Main Street 
corner, was somnolent in its repose. The crowd had 
stoned two automobiles and had started a runaway. 
Mr. McNish had been followed by a snarling, cursing, 
hooting pack, and, stopping at the police station, had 
had his anger increased by the nonchalant attitude of 
the captain in charge. Others had had the same expe- 
rience during the morning. In fact, the appearance of 
anyone who had any connection, in the minds of the 
men, with shop-owners was the signal for organized 
abuse. When Gilshannon arrived, the groups about the 
shops were enjoying themselves hurling occasional stones 
through the office windows, and joking with the leisurely 
“ guardian of the peace” who occasionally told them to 
move on. 

“ There,” remarked Gilshannon, “ we’ve got down to 
the genius of a strike, 'an infinite capacity for breaking 
panes. ’ ” 

He passed from group to group, and everywhere he 
received a noisy welcome. He hurried up stairways 
where no other outsider was permitted to go. He passed 
pickets, and his cynical face was his countersign. He 
interrupted an important meeting, where his sudden 
appearance stopped Martin Jethro, whose red face ap- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 369 


peared occasionally in a revolving windmill of arms, so 
abruptly that one of Jethro’s arms remained outstretched 
some seconds, before finishing the gesture without words. 

“Stop swinging Indian clubs,” said Gilshannon. The 
crowd turned around, angry at the interruption, and then 
laughed aloud when they saw that it was Gilshannon. 
They all liked him, and if the News printed anything 
unfavorable to workingmen they were certain he had not 
written it. Whatever they liked in the paper they were 
sure came from his pen. 

A few moments later he was the center of a large 
crowd in the street, where he started a discussion to 
which he listened until he caught sight of Tom Grady 
talking excitedly to three or four men under a store awn- 
ing. He drifted over to them, told them a good story 
and asked no questions. They therefore told him a 
good many interesting things, and Gilshannon yawned 
and remarked that, “seeing there was nothing doing, he 
guessed he’d go back to the office,” and loafed down the 
street, hands in pockets and whistling loudly. At the 
first store around the corner a large blue bell suggested 
a telephone; and he went in; matched a dime against a 
nickel with the clerk to see who should pay for the mes- 
sage; won; and closed the door of the little booth behind 
him. Gilbert answered the call. 

“No, I want to talk with Mrs. Gilbert.” 

“Isn’t that you, Gil?” 

“I’m McCarty, the iceman, and I want to talk to ” 

“All right.” 

He told Mrs. Gilbert that he wanted her to keep “the 
young man” indoors to-day, at least not to let him come 


370 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


down to the shop; that there was no trouble of any 
kind and wouldn't be; that it was merely a question of 
policy, and that he was certain that she alone could 
keep “the young man" at home. Then he asked for 
Gilbert and explained to him the situation. 

“As far as I can tell Conlin turned them loose this 
morning. He issued a statement to them not to use 
violence, but he told Jethro and Grady and the rest to 
go as far as they liked without burning up the shops. 
There are perhaps three hundred of 'em lined up around 
the shops, but there aren't fifty of 'em that have their 
fighting blood up. They just josh people who go by, 
and make folks in automobiles duck, and break window 
glass. Jethro and the others have been letting off their 
fireworks all morning, but they don't enthuse a bit. 
But they've got it in for you, and if you turned up down 
here you’d be a red rag and they'd all get their heads 
done " — “ Yes, I knew you'd be like that. That's why I 
told your mother to tie a hard knot in her apron strings" 
— “All right, call me another. I like it." 

He hung up the receiver and called up the police sta- 
tion. The chief himself answered: 

“ Did you know that for two hours a bunch of strikers 
have been relieving their feelings at the public expense 
on your street?"— “All right. Just wanted to find out 
if you knew about it. This is the News talking." 

Gilshannon went out of the store, whistling, uncon- 
sciously picking up, where he had left it, the melody he 
had dropped. Up on Railroad Street, the police station 
woke up suddenly and started to arrest two or three men. 
Some hotheads among the strikers led an attempt to 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


371 


prevent the arrests, and for an hour the crowd struggled 
with the police and outwitted them and in the end over- 
came them. At the twelve o’clock whistle they drifted 
off to neighboring saloons, leaving a lone prisoner in the 
jail, — a Jewish boy who worked for Weg, the cheap cloth- 
ier, and who, passing, had assisted in the stone throwing. 

It was nearly four o’clock when Gilbert completed his 
writing. He tore up the sheets of paper he had wasted, 
threw out the ashes of four cigars and put on his 
coat. 

“ Where are you going?” Mrs. Gilbert asked in surprise. 

“Down to Prentice’s.” 

“Then I’m going with you,” she said decisively, and 
went for her hat and jacket. She went with him only 
as far as the porch, however, and stood there, a moment 
later, watching him down the sunny, peaceful street; 
proud of him, fearful for him, and with a jealous sense of 
defeat in her heart that she scarcely admitted even to 
herself. 

“He’s going to see her,” she said under her breath, 
his promises and good-natured threats and ridicule repeat- 
ing themselves in her ears. “He didn’t want me.” 

The stinging air made the red blood bound through 
his veins, and he threw back his broad shoulders with a 
jerk as if to dislodge a burden. Everything was done 
that could be done. Therefore he would forget the 
entire matter. All day he had held his thoughts at 
leash by sheer strength of will. When he had tried to 
write that morning he had found her face looking up at 
him from the paper, across at him from the walls, down 
at him from the ceiling. He could not seem to escape 


372 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


her. And to-day the tantalizing smile, that he used to 
doubt and fear, seemed consistently tender. Now he 
must see her. He had tired of his imagination. He 
wanted the reality. He hadn’t seen her since last night, 
and that was centuries upon centuries ago. He laughed 
at himself boyishly as he turned in at her gate. 

“ She’s not in,” said the grinning Irish girl. “She’s 
gone out with Mr. McNish.” 

Gilbert had never before realized how much he dis- 
liked grinning Irish girls. He stared at her for a full 
moment, mumbled a word of thanks and turned away 
down the long walk. And, as he went, his jaw set deter- 
minedly, and his eyes, unseeing, stared at the sidewalk 
before him. Even people, leaning curiously from a pass- 
ing car to look at him, reminded him of nothing except 
his ungainly bulk, which often made him conscious and 
uncomfortable. 

When he had done his errand at the little printery he 
decided to go down to the shops, and was half way to the 
corner before he remembered his promise. He stopped 
to think and, listening, he heard the Fall wind piping in 
the trees overhead. Its call stirred him. As he walked 
on he saw, back of the corner in the vacant lot they had 
used when he was in school, the High School boys prac- 
tising football. Impulsively he strode across to the 
swaying lines that faced each other, and the little group 
which crouched ready for the ball. He heard the loud, 
high signal, and he saw the crouching backs beat up 
against the opposing line in vain; and the signal called 
him as clearly as it called the runner with the ball. The 
boys cared nothing for Hardy & Son or for politics. They 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 373 


greeted him with a cheer, for the achievements of the 
team he had captained and which had won the state 
championship years before, was a mighty chapter in the 
school’s history. Five minutes later the school team was 
beginning the best practice game of its season, the prac- 
tice which, they said afterwards, won the pennant for 
them, and the dozen or more spectators were shouting for 
the giant who, forgetful of all else, plunged through its 
defenses and stopped its rushes and tackled its runners 
who had evaded the other players of the “scrub.” It 
was beginning to grow dark when he left them, his trou- 
sers spotted with grass stains, and one shirt sleeve torn 
into shreds. They gave their school yell for him vocifer- 
ously, and he laughed and waved his hand to them and 
hurried away. His watch told him that it was nearly 
six o’clock. 

Directly before him through the dusk he caught sight 
of Colonel Mead toiling up the hill as rapidly as stiff, 
rheumatic legs would carry him. Gilbert hailed him and 
he stopped with an unmistakable look of relief on his 
face. 

“Lookin’ fer you,” he said between breaths, as Gilbert 
joined him. “Been down-town. That Gilshannon wri- 
ter-man wuz standin’— steps o’ the hotel— crowd around 
— when I went down. Thought he watched me care- 
ful. When I came back he steps out with thet way of 
his, ez ef he was dancin’ on a flower bed an’ about to 
ask the Queen o’ Sheba to hev a stroll with him. He 
looks me square in the eye, and he says loud like, ‘Mr. 
Mead, here’s that check ye’ve been wantin’.’ Havin’ 
been born day ’fore yestiddy, I savveyed, an’ told him 


374 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


thet I wuz glad to see him leadin’ a moral Christian life 
at last, an’ come along. Here’s the check. ‘Tell J. G. 
plans being made to do for him at Opera House if he 
tries to speak. ’ ” 

“Good business,” cried Gilbert emphatically. 

The Colonel stared at him wonderingly. 

“That takes the last worry off my head,” Gilbert 
went on. “They haven’t control and they can’t get it 
before to-night. We’ve got ’em on the run, Colonel.” 

“But, damn it, boy” — the Colonel shook the paper 
vigorously in Gilbert’s face — “how about this here am- 
bush?” 

“When is an ambush not an ambush, Colonel? When 
you know about it before-hand, of course. There won’t 
be any important disturbance at that meeting.” 

Gilbert’s whimsical smile reassured Colonel Mead, 
though he shook his head doubtfully. 

“I’m cornin’ after ye to-night, boy, in the best carry- 
all I can get.” 

Gilbert laughed good-humoredly his thanks for the 
older man’s precaution, as the Colonel left him and 
started diagonally across the street. 

“Colonel,” he called, when the veteran was only a 
dark outline on the other side of the roadway, “come to 
the Hardys’ for me at eight.” 

The Colonel stopped, hesitated, then waved his hand 
understanding^ and faded into the growing darkness. 

Gilbert found his mother nervously pacing the little 
front porch. 

“There’ve been some men about, laddie,” she said, 
her forehead creased with worry wrinkles, when they 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 375 


were within. Gilbert caught her chin and, stooping over, 
he kissed her. 

“I thought young women like you rather enjoyed that, 
mither. ,, And he laughed away her objections. 

Supper was leisurely and merry, with Mrs. Gilbert in 
higher spirits than usual, and her son, being a mere 
man, watched her admiringly and believed that her 
cheerfulness was genuine. The meal over, Gilbert, with 
an awkward affectation of carelessness, closed the door 
into the hall, and Mrs. Gilbert heard alternately for many 
minutes the tinkling of the telephone bell and the steady 
murmur of one-sided conversations. She found him in 
the parlor sometime afterwards, smoking and reading 
over his manuscript. Before he had finished it the clock 
on the mantelpiece chimed the half hour. 

“Do I look all right, mither?” he asked, as they stood 
in the doorway a moment or two later. Mrs. Gilbert’s 
eye wandered proudly over the massive, ungainly figure, 
which no artificial things such as clothes could ever fit, 
and the head with its protruding jaw, its shaggy eye- 
brows, broad-bridged nose and shock of unruly brown 
hair. She was a fighting mother. 

“You look fine, laddie,” she said. “I hope you beat 
them.” 

She watched him tramp across the short area, where 
the moonlight through the trees mingled weirdly with 
the streaming lines of flaring gaslight. A shrill whistle 
from the darkness beyond made her start suddenly, but 
she stood for a long time on the brilliant threshold, that 
he might see her if he chanced to look back. Then she 
closed the door, and knelt quickly upon the stairs. 


376 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Once away from the house Gilbert hurried with long, 
loping strides. There were only twenty-five short, 
precious minutes before the Colonel would call for him, 
twenty-five minutes in which to see her. He tried to 
comfort himself by calculating that there would be fif- 
teen hundred seconds. Then the thought of her ban- 
ished everything else from his mind. He saw nothing, 
heard nothing, forgot everything but her. When he 
awoke again he found himself at the beginning of her 
hedge, where the night hung blackest midway between 
the two corner lamps, the trees obscuring the moon. 
Beyond was the house, a few dim lights alone showing 
life. With the goal in sight he hurried the faster, and 
turned in at the narrow gateway. There he wheeled 
suddenly at a footstep behind him. But nobody ap- 
peared and the noise was not repeated. He went on up 
the path. The grinning Irish girl once more opened the 
door and peered out. 

“I’ll see/’ she said and shut the door ungraciously. 
Gilbert smiled and then fidgeted anxiously, watching the 
street for fear the prompt Colonel would appear to carry 
him away before he could see her. Under the electric 
light below he saw occasional dark figures appear and 
disappear, and a belated grocer’s wagon drive by furiously. 

“Mr. Gilbert/’ said the girl, appearing behind him, 
“they say she’s out in the garden next door. Shall I 
call her or ” 

“I’ll find her,” he laughed boyishly and, taking the 
three steps in one, he swung around the side of the house 
toward the gap in the hedge he knew so well. As he 
straightened up after bending to pass through it, he gave 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 377 


a quick sigh of delight. Before him stretched the gar- 
den of his memories, and across it lay undiscovered paths 
of moonshine, with twigs and long waving stalks danc- 
ing elfin-like at their edges. Far away the pale light lay 
upon the old apple tree like a saintly halo, and, beyond, 
reached again the fairyland of shade and shine, ending 
never, a land of peace, peopled with the fancies of his 
boyhood, reaching from him to the moon and back. 
And somewhere, lost in its tangled labyrinths, she awaited 
him, unknowing. He started forward, his feet tramp- 
ing the well-remembered ways mechanically. Twice he 
stopped and listened, thinking that he heard her, and 
called softly. Hearing no answer, he went on more 
slowly, feeling the spell of the silence and peace about 
him. 

At last he stopped at the edge of the trees. Beyond 
was the little clearing and the summer-house, and, his 
heart told him by its quickening beat, she was there. 
It was her sanctuary and he hesitated to disturb her. 
As he stood waiting for a moment in the shadow, he heard 
the echoing toll of the First Church bell, sounding muffled 
and mellow in the distance. It was eight o’clock, time 
for the Colonel, and he had not seen her. He groped his 
way in among the trees, through which, above, the moon 
pierced with one broad spot of light directly before the 
summer-house, and sent stray beams within to play with 
the dense shadows. “Oh, Clare,” he called, coming out 
into the weird brilliancy. Beyond in the shadow some- 
thing moved and came toward him. He started toward 
it. Then, suddenly, he leaped aside into the blackness 
and, throwing himself erect, braced himself, every sense 


378 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


alert. For the figure that he saw was that of a crouch- 
ing man. A footstep crackled at his left, and someone 
stumbled behind him. The moon disappeared behind 
a cloud, and the garden of peace vanished. 

All day Clare Hardy had felt an indefinable sense of 
rebuff, in the midst of her admiration for Gilbert’s refusal 
to read the papers she had brought him. When she 
found that he had come that afternoon while she was 
out, her first impulse was to go to him. Perhaps there 
was some new way in which she might help him. But 
her pride held her back. She had taken the initiative 
too often already, it told her, and with a sigh of discon- 
tent she surrendered temporarily to the conventions her 
mother worshiped. After a silent dinner with Mrs. 
Hardy, idleness indoors grew too irksome to be borne, and, 
throwing a coat over her shoulders, she slipped out and 
through the gap in the hedge, into Mr. McNish’s ever- 
welcoming garden, to be idle out of doors and alone. 
She, too, stopped as the calm, moonlit garden unfolded 
itself before her, but she noticed few of its detailed 
traceries of beauty. It suggested him and the old days 
and Billy, — this garden; that was its beauty and its power 
to her and, strangely enough, tears sprang to her eyes. 
She was advancing to one of her favorite paths when she 
heard the front door of the big house close noisily, and 
Billy’s well-known, whistle. Impulsively she answered 
it, and, quickly drying her eyes, she turned back, along 
the path by the side of the house. At the corner of the 
porch she met him, and they paced together slowly around 
to the front walk. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 379 


“I’m in a gray -green funk,” was Billy’s greeting. “I 
can’t remember a thing I want to say to-night. Ever}' 
few seconds I find myself saying, ‘ Ladies and Gentlemen,’ 
and the meeting is for men only. It’s going to be an 
awful fizzle.” 

“Nonsense.” 

“ That’s right. Try to brace me up. But I was never 
like this before. I’ve been scared, but I never was par- 
alyzed. Why, I couldn’t eat any dinner, Clare. That’s 
fair evidence, and, afterwards, I went upstairs and tried 
to make my speech, and all I could do was to make ges- 
tures. It’s awful.” 

Billy’s unassumed woe set Clare laughing gayly, for 
tears and mirth were both near the surface with her 
that night. He was laughing with her when they heard 
the eight o’clock bell strike its echoing toll. 

“Billy, will you ever grow up?” They were under 
the big elm near the gate. The moon had gone under a 
cloud and the lawn was dark. He hesitated. 

“Perhaps,” he said in a low voice, leaning toward her, 
suddenly grave. 

“It’s so silly,” she hurried on. “You know you’re 
going to make the greatest speech of your life to-night.” 

“I might if you’d say one word, just one word, Clare.” 
He caught her hand unawares and she let him hold it. 

“Billy,” she pleaded, her voice steady, “don’t make 
it hard for me to-night when I want to help you.” 

“I can’t give you up, Clare.” 

“Yes, you can, Billy, and you must.” 

“You’re certain?” 

“Certain.” 


380 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


The door of the house closed quietly, and Mr. McNish 
came out and toward them. 

“ Fm sorry.” Clare’s words came slowly. “ I want you 
to succeed to-night — and always, Billy. You know that.” 

“It’s Jack,” Billy whispered. 

She turned from him quickly to try to greet Mr. 
McNish, but before she could speak Billy came to her 
rescue. 

“Clare has been wishing me success, father,” he said 
quietly. Mr. McNish looked from one to the other 
curiously. 

“There ought to be no doubt of the outcome of the 
meeting, then,” he remarked gallantly. 

Clare Hardy walked slowly back to the gap in the 
hedge. The garden had no charm for her. A dull 
weight of regret pulled at her heart. At the hedge she 
came suddenly face to face with her maid. 

“Colonel Mead is looking fer Mr. Gilbert, ma’am, an’ 
’tis a hurry he’s in, too.” 

“Mr. Gilbert? Where?” 

“Sure, I sint him out after you long ago,” and the 
girl rehearsed the matter in detail. Clare’s mind worked 
quickly. 

“All right,” she said. “Tell Colonel Mead that Mr. 
Gilbert will be there immediately.” 

She did not wait to see the girl turn back with the 
message. She started down into the garden, calling his 
name, her heart beating lightly. He had come again 
then. He was here, in their old garden, searching for 
her. The world was not such a helter-skelter affair after 
all. She threaded her way along rapidly, calling and 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 381 


listening. On through the garden, bright again in the 
moonlight, she went, her heart growing heavier as no 
answer came. Perhaps he had come and, not finding 
her, he had gone again. She pushed her way in among 
the trees about the summer-house. She stopped short, 
her heart beating wildly. Then, with a low cry, she 
threw herself on her knees beside the well-known figure 
lying in the broad patch of light, and called his name 
again and again. 

The odor of smoke aroused her to the realities of it 
all, and she turned to see the last sparks die out of a 
crumpled mass of charred paper on the ground beside 
him. The sinuous tendrils of smoke curled upward like 
incense until they reached the edge of the background 
of moonshine, and then they vanished into the darkness. 

Hampstead Opera House had been built three years 
before by a company organized by ex-Congressman 
Strutt and a few others. Its common stock had been 
sold by popular subscription among the citizens, and it 
was therefore looked upon by them with pride as a 
municipal achievement. The ex-Congressman, however, 
looked upon the building very naturally as a personal 
achievement, since he was president of the company 
and since he held a majority of the preferred stock upon 
which alone dividends were paid. Few visitors were 
allowed to leave Hampstead without admiring the new 
organ in the Baptist church or the handsome Public 
Library, but no one escaped until the proud hosts had 
led the way to the Opera House by night or by day. It 
was Hampstead’s magnum opus . 


382 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Hampstead Opera House was one of the largest thea- 
ters in Connecticut, and never in its short history had it 
held as large or as vigorous a crowd as this which arose 
to cheer and to jeer the young candidate for mayor, on 
that memorable Saturday night. Billy McNish, thread- 
ing his way among the party leaders and privileged guests 
on the stage, stopping now and then to shake hands 
gracefully with one and another, felt a sudden exhilara- 
tion sweep through him as he realized that this discord- 
ant, deafening noise was raised for him. He reached 
the front of the stage, bowed with assumed dignity and 
then gave a natural, boyish wave of the hand, a half 
salute, that caught the assemblage immediately. Billy 
sat down, looked squarely at the mass of men he had 
feared and smiled contentedly. 

They packed the little boxes at his left and right, and 
the green hangings had been drawn aside that all might 
see. Above in the two galleries a line of arms, many of 
them in shirt sleeves, dangled in various postures over 
the showy green papier-mache covering, and above them 
rose terrace after terrace of bobbing heads. Down- 
stairs in the pit the aisles were obliterated, the standing 
room at the back was filled, and even in the lobby be- 
yond, as in the foyer above, there was no end visible of 
the swaying mass. 

All day the town had been filled with rumors, many 
of them wild and improbable, about this meeting. The 
striking workmen had heard them, and the men at the 
benches of Hubbard’s huge shops, and the toiling gang 
who were cutting up Broad Street and laying track. 
The politicians had heard them and the storekeepers 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 383 


had spread them and the street loafers had enlarged 
them until all Hampstead was on tiptoe for some mys- 
terious sensation. No wonder the Opera House was 
crowded, and no wonder the streets outside were jammed 
with disappointed men and curious women. 

Within they were all men. Peering across the lowered 
footlights Billy recognized many faces, a doctor here, 
an old mechanic there, lawyers pushing young clerks, 
a shirt-sleeved hod carrier sitting and a small factory 
owner standing behind him. There was Mr. Higgins of 
Tareville crowded up against the complacent Mr. Butter- 
son, who mopped his red, apoplectic face with a huge 
handkerchief. Mr. Tubb sat in the center, waving with 
spasmodic enthusiasm a small American flag, and beyond 
him, in a new check suit and wearing the inevitable 
bird’s-egg blue necktie, Mr. Lumpkin of the night lunch 
wagon was evidently amusing those about him with 
original remarks. Beside him Joe Heffier and Jimmy 
O'Rourke sat silent. The “cabinet” was still intact. 
Over at the left Tom Grady sat scowling in the midst of 
a group that seemed organized, and in which Billy saw 
men whom he knew were employees of Hardy & Son. 
Sprinkled here and there, he noticed swarthy foreign faces, 
and he caught the glow of red handkerchiefs. Above in 
the second gallery loafers whistled shrilly, and the men in 
the orchestra worked hard to make “The Star-Spangled 
Banner” heard above the hum of conversation and the 
occasional remarks of loud-voiced wits, which followed 
the din of applause at Billy's entrance. 

Turning, Billy found Moriarty's eye upon him ques- 
tioningly. The little Irishman jerked his finger toward 


384 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


two empty chairs at the front of the stage. As if in echo, 
a loud, organized cry came from the left, which caught 
the attention of everyone in the house, for the orchestra 
had surrendered temporarily after playing every national 
air it knew. 

“Where is John Gilbert?” 

Jeers and cat-calls followed the question. 

“Coward.” 

“ Scared out.” 

“Scab.” 

Most of the cries came from the left. The rest of the 
house sat silent, but Billy, looking again at the thousands 
of faces, — all, it seemed to him, turned in his direction, — 
felt that a sudden change had been wrought in the 
assemblage. A moment ago it had seemed good-humored 
and leisurely. Now it was molded into an alert, grim 
force, eager for struggle. For a half second he wished 
that Clare Hardy might have heard his greeting and 
Gilbert’s. Then he straightened quickly in his chair as 
Judge Morrison, standing by the speaker’s low table, 
addressed the meeting in his deep, orotund voice. 

The crowd listened quietly at first, and Billy, with a 
feeling of relief at being temporarily sheltered from atten- 
tion, turned now and then to watch anxiously the wings 
on the other side of the stage. Others behind him, also, 
were staring in the same direction. Before the Judge 
had spoken five minutes Moriarty slipped out unnoticed 
and disappeared through the stage door plainly visible 
from the stage. Gilshannon, at the reporter’s table at 
the side, caught Billy’s eye and shook his head slightly, 
while the Judge helped himself to the inevitable swallow 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 385 


of water in the middle of his remarks. The rest of the 
speech was punctuated with loud cheers and with hoots 
and wails of derision, for the old Judge made a doleful 
and pessimistic plea that “an industrial condition, or 
the support of any man, ought not to influence a loyal 
party man away from his ticket.” He finished with an 
open apology for John Gilbert’s connection with the 
campaign, and an introduction of Billy McNish, in well- 
rounded phrases, as “the next mayor of Hampstead.” 
He sat down amid applause that quickly died away in 
anticipation. 

As Billy arose jauntily he was greeted by the reiter- 
ated chant from the left. 

“Where is John Gilbert?” 

This time it was echoed in a disjointed cry from the 
top gallery, and when that died away, a group of young 
men at the rear, anxious to have a hand in the fun, 
reiterated it, emphasizing humorously the second word 
and pausing an instant after it. 

“Where is John Gilbert?” 

Billy beamed at them genially and waited. 

“Can’t we have it once more?” he said good-naturedly 
when they were quiet. Billy’s good humor was infectious 
and the audience smiled. 

“And I was taught that it was the women who were 
inquisitive,” he added. 

The smile broadened and Billy, watching them, knew 
that it was time for him to begin. 

Never before had Billy so completely held an audience. 
Throughout the ten minutes that he spoke he did not 
see an eye turn from him. Every sense made keen with 


386 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


the exhilaration of it, he listened with them to his speech 
and applauded it. He watched every movement in the 
vast mass facing him, read their thoughts intuitively, and 
felt every wave of emotion that lifted them. When they 
laughed his whole being shook with delight. Tears came 
into his eyes when he saw tears glisten in theirs. And 
when they were silent, more than two thousand, so that 
he could scarcely hear their repressed breathing, cool 
thrills ran up and down his back. And yet, in the midst 
of his triumph, he felt the emptiness of the chairs at his 
right, and, turning now and then to speak to the boxes, 
he flashed a glance across the stage at them. And 
always they were empty. 

Suddenly the atmosphere of success changed in the 
midst of a sentence. His grip on the crowd seemed to 
relax rapidly. The defection began in the galleries and 
spread throughout the entire hall. The whispering stir 
grew louder. Necks were craned. And in the pit many 
men arose and stared past him. As he finished the sen- 
tence a hand caught his arm, and he turned to look into 
Moriarty’s face, pale with excitement. A low murmur 
ran through the wondering audience, partly of approval 
at the young candidate’s unexpectedly good speech, 
partly of conjecture as to the cause of the interruption. 
Billy had turned his back upon them and had followed 
the little Irishman to the wings, without a word. On 
the stage nearly everyone was standing, trying to catch 
a glimpse of the little group by the stage door, but only 
those near by could see Clare Hardy and Billy meet in 
the midst of a dozen excited men. 

When, a few moments later, Billy reappeared, he Tvas 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 387 


followed in single file by all of the men who had been in 
the group in the wings except Mr. McNish, and when 
they reached the front of the stage they separated slowly 
into a long line that stretched behind Billy from one side 
of the stage to the other. The great audience, impressed 
instantly by the menacing grimness of their faces, leaned 
forward in expectant silence, while behind them the 
closely packed mass on the stage arose to see and to listen. 
Billy in the center, the pivot of the surrounding throng, 
stood waiting for the scraping of chairs behind him to 
cease. When at last he spoke, his voice rang clear and 
defiant, although he paused between words as if for 
breath. 

“If anyone fails to hear a word of what I say now I 
want him to stop me.” He paused, and for some seconds 
the throbbing silence of the thousands, tense, awe-inspir- 
ing, overpowering, filled the hall. “The bravest man in 
Hampstead is dead or dying.” Billy’s voice broke, but 
he went on with an effort. “For months he has been 
fighting for you and for me the most insidious, the most 
deadly, the most unscrupulous power in our city, fight- 
ing while many of us railed at him and called him coward. 
At last he uncovered them and to-night he was to have 
told us for our own protection all he knew. But they, 
these enemies of his and of ours, knowing that no honest 
man in Hampstead would walk the same street with 
them if what John Gilbert knew was told, have added 
murder to their list of crimes. You asked some time 
ago where John Gilbert was. I could not tell you then. 
I can tell you now. He started for this meeting. On 
the way he was attacked in the dark by a large number 


388 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


of men, who also destroyed the manuscript of the speech 
he was to read to us. Men, you have called him a coward. 
Two of the mob who attacked him were found senseless 
near him, and there are trails of the blood of others that 
show how well he defended himself.” 

The speaker paused again, but from every part of the 
auditorium came shouts for him to go on. 

“The manuscript of his speech was destroyed, but 
there was another copy about which his enemies did not 
know. I have it here.” Billy lifted a smudged sheaf 
of papers in his hand. Cheers started on the stage be- 
hind him and swept out into the auditorium until the 
great audience rocked with them, clear, defiant, menacing, 
the outcry of an American assemblage for fair play. 
Over at the left Tom Grady sat among the strikers, 
cowed and silent. 

“It was brought to me from the printers, to whom he 
took it that every home might read his story in plain 
print.” Billy shouted this into the midst of the clamor. 
Then he arranged the soiled and wrinkled sheets of paper, 
and half-a-dozen men closed in about him as if in fear of 
a second attack. The audience quieted quickly before 
the magic of the manuscript, and Billy realized, for the 
first time in his legal experience, the existence of a real 
bar of justice in a republic of many courts of law. 

“I come here to-night,” the manuscript began, “not 
as a speaker nor as a politician but as a citizen, to state 
some unpleasant facts. There is a group of men in this 
city, wealthy, respected, powerful. I shall name four, 
Mr. Brett, your mayor, Mr. Merrivale, Mr. Strutt and 
Mr. Alonzo Hubbard, and the greatest of these is the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 389 


last. I shall prove to you that these men are not only 
bad citizens but dangerous criminals; that for their own 
ends they have robbed the city and have bribed weak- 
lings; that they have bought and paid for a strike against 
Hardy & Son, so that they might fleece its stockholders 
and own it at little cost; that they are conspirators 
against public and private peace, men who evidently 
are not graced with a single conscientious scruple.” 

The stern .face of the audience scarcely moved. A 
quick, convulsive gasp at the naming of Hampstead’s 
leading citizens left mouths agape with amazement. 
Otherwise the only stir was of heads turned now and 
then toward neighbors, sober or doubting glances, and 
then eyes front once more, bent upon the group at the 
front of the stage, in the midst of which stood the young 
man who had made them laugh a few minutes ago and 
who had laughed with them, and in whose hands now 
the threatening sheets of paper trembled and rattled 
audibly. Slowly and with the jerky emphasis of hardly 
restrained anger came concisely the intricate story of the 
fight for the shops; how the ring had hired Mr. Conlin and 
two local union men; how the mass of the men had been 
imposed upon and had gone out; how the ring had then 
bought the newspapers and had fooled the public as it 
had fooled the men ; and at last how nearly it had come 
to obtaining the control of the mills. Rapidly the 
atmosphere in the close hall became electric and fore- 
boding. 

“This man, Conlin, your leader, men, is an old criminal. 
He has been in prison three times to my knowledge. He 
will get thousands of dollars if this strike is successful. 


390 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


You know Martin Jethro and Tom Grady as well as I 
do. They are getting thirty-five dollars a week salary 
during the strike, and will receive a bonus of one hun- 
dred dollars if it is successful. And what do you get? 
Higher wages? No. A union shop? No. You are out 
of work while the strike lasts, and if it is successful the 
doors of part of Hardy & Son are closed against you. 
You must sell your homes and find work elsewhere. 
That is your reward.” 

A low growl of growing anger, like the first muttering 
of a coming tempest, ran through the audience, beginning 
at the left. The strikers near his seat reached threaten- 
ing hands forward for Grady, but he was not there. He 
had slipped from his seat to the orchestra box, and was 
even then lying behind a pile of old canvas underneath 
the stage. As the noise increased Billy raised the manu- 
script above his head and, as if by magic, the tumult 
ceased into grim silence. As the reading continued, how- 
ever, and as they heard the true history of the Street 
Railway Bill, of the bribery by which it was passed 
and of the gain that it meant to a few at the expense of 
the many, red passion flared across the multitude, and 
thunderous shouts interrupted the speaker again and 
again with growing rapidity of succession. 

The story of the reservoir deal, with the engineer’s 
statement of the amount of money it had put into two 
or three pockets at the city’s expense, heaped up the 
growing anger until men sat gritting their teeth and 
clenching their fists and waiting for the speaker to finish. 
From where Billy stood the strained intensity of the 
crowd was startling, terrifying. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 391 


“I think I have proved what I set out to prove. I ask 
you this. Will you allow the Hardy shops to be wrecked 
by these industrial pirates? Will you allow our city 
government to be merely an open window to these gentle- 
men thieves? Crime unpunished or unprevented breeds 
greater crime. If you do not stop them, they of them- 
selves will stop at nothing.” 

With the coincidence of the last words the tempest 
broke. The entire mass was on its feet, talking loudly, 
shouting curses, howling suggestions; organized in its 
unleashed passion for vengeance, but without a united 
purpose for obtaining it; a wild chaos of swaying bodies, 
faces alternately white and red with anger and deter- 
mination, and glistening with sweat, arms lifted and 
swinging. “Tar and feather” — “String 'em up” — 
“Run 'em out.” Here and there a few shouted for 
order and tried to restrain those about them, but without 
result. In their midst sat a man in a checked suit — 
crying unashamed like a child, the tears dripping un- 
heeded upon his gorgeous bird's-egg blue necktie. A 
boy was on his feet, shaking his doubled fists in the air, 
and a man with gray hair sat, unnaturally pale, staring 
at the platform. On the stage the group of men in front 
were talking earnestly. Suddenly the noise lessened and 
quieted, until even Peter Lumpkin's sobs could be heard 
in the stillness. Billy had advanced to the footlights 
and again the magic manuscript was raised above his 
head. 

“Gentlemen, John Gilbert has fought a fair fight. 
Only those who wish to blacken his name will finish 
that fight with violence.” 


392 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


Billy paused a second. Then he signaled to the leader 
of the orchestra and, turning on his heel, he started 
down through the lane that the people on the stage made 
for him to the stage door. The orchestra struck up a 
popular march, and the foreheads of the cornetist and the 
trombone-player grew red with effort. Slowly the great 
crowd turned and slowly it filed out. Again there were 
loud cries and angry threats, but they were fewer and 
less vigorous. Billy’s closing sentence, while it had only 
strengthened their anger, had brought back suddenly 
their inbred Connecticut respect for law. Outside many 
gathered in small groups that grew and melted into one, 
and at last moved over to the little green, where Judge 
Morrison and others talked quietly from the dilapidated 
grandstand. Peter Lumpkin was among the last to 
leave the hall. For a time he stood on the steps, and 
now and then he wiped his eyes and breathed deep sighs. 
Suddenly he was conscious of a figure that crept from 
the darkened entrance, behind which the noises of clos- 
ing doors were audible. It stood at last beside him, 
peering across at the park and at the crowd there that 
had left the street empty. 

“What’re they goin’ to do now, Lump?” The voice 
was half fear and half sneer. 

The night lunch wagon proprietor dabbed at his eyes 
carefully and returned his handkerchief to his pocket. 
Then, without the slightest warning, he sent his doubled 
fist into the man’s face and threw himself upon him. 
Grady fell back with an oath, slipped, went down, then, 
pulling himself free, he disappeared in an alley. Mr. 
Lumpkin picked himself up and stared down at the 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 393 


ruined clothes. Then he started across to the green, 
where he told the men on the edge of the crowd that he 
had “whipped” Tom Grady, and showed his clothes as 
proof. 

All that night the tramp of men was heard in the streets 
of Hampstead. People indoors heard it and wondered, 
and, peering out, saw shadowy figures pass silently by. 
Women, — wives and mothers, — sat up waiting for their 
men and at last slept restlessly from sheer weariness. 
Others, less fortunate, cried themselves to sleep with 
shame at the dishonor which had come to them and to 
their children, or sat lonely behind drawn shades and 
heard the sound of many voices outside and the beat 
of footsteps, at once a guard and a menace. Molly 
Jethro, sitting dry-eyed beside a cot in jail on Railroad 
Street where her husband had been brought from Mr. 
McNish’s garden, prayed for John Gilbert and for those 
who sat wretchedly waiting with drawn faces in the 
great stone house on the hill. 

No one slept on Broad Street that night. Before mid- 
night three or four hundred stern-faced men, with a gray- 
haired young man in the lead, marched into the thorough- 
fare. The workmen toiling under the torches looked 
into their faces and heard their commands and dropped 
pick and shovel and hammer. The three or four hundred 
men took their places. A team appeared, loaded with 
Jimmy O’Rourke’s barrels, and soon a great bonfire lit 
the entire length of street, where mechanics and store- 
keepers and doctors in their shirt sleeves pulled up ties 
and rails and filled in, from end to end, the lane which 
the workmen had made. And all the while Peter Lump- 


394 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


kin, his shovel beating time, shouted songs in his mega- 
phonic baritone, and the crowd joined in on chorus after 
chorus. At last Peter started a tune in which nobody 
joined. He stopped work and everybody listened. He 
finished it full voice: 

‘‘For I count it one of the wisest things 
To drive dull care away.” 

Then, to the surprise of everyone except Joe Heffler 
and Jimmy O'Rourke, Mr. Lumpkin sat down on the 
curbstone and cried again like a child. At dawn there 
was no trace of the Broad Street extension of the street 
railway except the uneven ridge that ran through the 
middle of the street. 

The peaceful sunlight of a New England Sunday dawn 
seemed to rest benignly upon the windows of John Gil- 
bert's boyhood room. Sometime later a girl emerged 
from the side door, and the sun lighted a wan smile upon 
her lips as she heard a low, muffled cheer from the groups 
of men upon the lawn in front. Then she disappeared 
through a gap in the hedge that led to a silent house 
beyond. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THANKSGIVING DAY 

J OHN GILBERT, sitting in an easy chair, started 
suddenly and leaned forward. The merry ripple 
of girlish laughter was not repeated, and he sank 
back disconsolately. It had been like this for weeks. 
In the first moments of returning consciousness on that 
Sunday morning that seemed years ago, he thought that 
he had seen bending over him a woman’s face that he 
knew. It had disappeared and he had tried to live that 
he might see it again. Later, as the fragments of his 
broken memory came back to him, they seemed to knit 
together about a girlish figure sitting beside him in a 
carriage, or standing before him in a parlor which seemed 
so familiar that at times he almost knew where it was 
and then lost it suddenly in a blank of exhaustion. Then, 
as the whole structure of the past gradually built itself 
up until he could look at it steadily, — until he knew that 
it was no longer a mirage, that might tumble into the 
dark cloud of forgetting which had hovered behind it, — 
he heard sometimes the beat of a footstep that made his 
pulse throb faster; he could hear it come to the door 
and stop, and his mother would tiptoe away from him, 
and he would hear whispers and then the footstep again, 
going away, going away until it faded at last into a mere 
pulse-beat. Only yesterday he had heard a voice that 
395 


396 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


he was sure was hers — there was no other voice like 
hers in the world — and he had limped to the window, for 
it seemed to come from without, and he had stared dis- 
appointedly at the empty garden. And now the ripple 
of her laughter, that broke into a cascade of melody 
at the end — from below stairs it sounded, and he was 
forbidden to go down until dinner time. He sighed 
deeply and listened, for once more it came echoing back 
to him, dull and muffled now and going away mockingly. 

They had told him gradually what had happened 
after that last shattering blow felled him at the steps of 
the old summer-house. They had told him how she 
called Mrs. Ruggles, Mr. McNish’s housekeeper, and a 
nearby doctor; and how, when they followed her to the 
spot with others to help them, she turned away resolutely 
and left them; how she brought Mrs. Gilbert and how 
she drove the automobile at reckless speed to Prentice’s 
printery and from there to the Opera House, in time to 
make the meeting an even mightier power than he could 
have made it. They had not told him that, when Mr. 
Me Nish brought her up West Hill again that night, she 
sobbed hysterically against that kindly gentleman’s 
shoulder, repeating again and again — “I didn’t want to 
leave him. I didn’t want to leave him. But it’s the 
thing that counts, not him nor me nor anybody else. 
He said so.” 

They had told him other things which seemed to 
interest him less. Martin Jethro had implicated a dozen 
day laborers at the mills, most of them foreigners only 
recently come to Hampstead, as those who, with him, 
had followed Gilbert into the old garden. Conlin had 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 397 


left town suddenly on that Saturday night, along with 
four, thoroughly frightened, leading citizens, and the ex- 
labor leader had never been heard of again. Jethro had 
declared that Conlin planned the attack upon Gilbert, 
but, whether or not Mr. Hubbard and the others had 
been a party to it, only Conlin could tell and Conlin had 
disappeared. The men had gone back to work at the 
Hardy shops on Monday and, the following day, Hamp- 
stead had elected Billy McNish mayor by the largest 
majority the town had ever known. The new Common 
Council had revoked the Street Railway Company’s added 
franchise, on the ground that the promised Broad Street 
extension had not been completed within the stated 
time. There had been some talk of lawsuits because of 
the interference with the building of the line, but it had 
proved to be nothing but talk. Mr. Hubbard evidently 
desired peace more than anything else. There were 
already two serious charges pending against him, and 
public opinion was with the prosecuting attorney. It 
was rumored that, after all, the group about Mr. Hub- 
bard had not lost much, aside from their hypothetical 
profits under the extended franchise. A great railroad 
company, which had been gradually absorbing electric 
roads in Connecticut, had bought out the old franchise, 
and had been granted the additional rights on terms 
that were fair to the city. Much of this Gilbert had 
listened to dully, seeming to take it all as a matter of 
course. He wouldn’t appear against Jethro or anybody 
else if he could help it, he said. 

During the last few days, with his returning strength, 
he had fretted considerably about, the shops and par- 


398 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


ticularly about the stock. He had overheard Mr. Mc- 
Nish say that Mr. Hubbard was back in town again, and 
his presence seemed to Gilbert like a threat. But neither 
Mr. McNish nor the Colonel nor Billy would mention 
business to him except to say soberly, in answer to his 
repeated questions, that everything was all right, and, 
jokingly, that they were getting along better without 
him than they could with him. He tried to believe them, 
but their assurances satisfied him less daily. The rattle 
of machinery seemed to call him and the shouts of the 
men at work, and the four walls of his old room seemed 
those of a prison. To-day, however, came a partial 
release, for his head seemed clear and strong and he could 
manage the foot with a cane. And to-morrow, if the 
weather was right, he was to be driven to the shops. He 
wondered suddenly whether, if he asked her, she would 
sit beside him in the carriage. 

Mrs. Gilbert, coming in quietly, found him propped up 
by his cane against the wood of the side window, below 
which was the high hedge and, beyond, the silent Hardy 
house. She smiled to herself as she stood for a few 
seconds, hesitating to interrupt him. She had seen 
him at that window many times during the last few 
days. 

“It’s a dull day, laddie, outside,” she said at last. He 
turned quickly with a guilty look on his face. “I used 
to want a cold, crisp day for Thanksgiving,” she went 
on, “but to-day I don’t seem to care. There’s so much 
to be thankful for.” 

Mrs. Gilbert’s arms were bared to the elbow, and the 
neck of her plain gingham gown was loosened. Her 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 399 


son, looking more closely, saw a fresh red stain on the 
front of her waist. 

“Mither,” he said sternly, “you've been cooking.” 

“Shh,” she cautioned, bobbing her head at him and 
laughing like a girl. “ Do you think I could eat a Thanks- 
giving dinner, here in this house, that some other woman 
cooked? They were glad to have me there a-helping 
them until I heard Mr. McNish coming, and then I ran 
up here. But it’s all done and you needn’t fear, laddie, 
about eating any of the food on the table. And now I’ll 
put on a dress that’s seeming for the great occasion.” 

Dinner was a great occasion indeed. They all came 
upstairs and escorted him down to the table, his mother, 
Mr. McNish, the Colonel and Billy, and they settled him 
in his chair and waited upon him until he laughed at 
them, declaring that they would spoil him. 

Mr. McNish’s fervent blessing — at the end of which, to 
Billy’s undisguised surprise and delight, the Colonel 
added an earnest and sonorous “Amen,” — was not for a 
table empty except of dishes, to which in dignified order 
would come a slow procession of courses brought by sim- 
pering maids. It was not necessary to approach this 
dinner with strategy, slighting early opportunities and 
holding reserves for that which was to come, only to be 
sorry afterwards for an undoubted mistake; or, rushing 
ahead with dauntless courage, only to find one’s forces 
exhausted just as the dish one desired more than all the 
rest appeared. The good things were all before them, 
and a dozen delicious odors lured them on. And such a 
dinner as it was! There was no tempting soup to take 
the edge from their appetites or from their anticipation. 


400 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


The great plates went around, piled high with turkey so 
tender that it seemed ready to fall apart, and with potatoes 
and squash from the garden. Then there were steaming 
onions, and cranberry sauce with just the right amount 
of sugar to please five varied tastes, and celery, crisp and 
white, with occasional roots shining like polished ivory; 
and olives and radishes with a dozen other relishes, and 
a mountain of smoking, snowy biscuit. 

As the meal progressed the Colonel gave vent to his 
admiration. 

“Only recollect one dinner the equal o’ this,” he 
remarked, “an’ thet was a cup o’ hot coffee at Helena, 
Montana, after I’d liked to starve to death in a blizzard.” 

“It is a good dinner,” Mr. McNish spoke proudly. 
“To tell the truth I didn’t think Mrs. Ruggles had it 
in her. She seems to have realized the occasion and 
risen to it.” 

The Mayor of Hampstead laughed aloud and winked 
impudently at Mrs. Gilbert. Then he told what he had 
seen through the kitchen window that morning, while 
Mr. McNish stared at Mrs. Gilbert with amazement and 
concern, and she returned the gaze with smiling pride. 
Mrs. Ruggles indeed! 

After a time there was a short pause, filled with long 
sighs of contentment. Then came thick pumpkin pies, 
and nuts and oranges, until they all gave it up in despair 
and drifted, with Gilbert in their midst, across the broad 
hall into the library. There, when they had seen him 
reclining comfortably in a broad Morris chair with his 
back to the doorway, Mrs. Gilbert disappeared and Billy 
followed her, shortly after cigars had been lit, Qu.ce, in 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 401 


the half-hour that passed quickly, Gilbert lifted himself 
up to go into the parlor in the front of the house where 
the piano was, but the Colonel stopped him and began the 
story of his experiences that had led to that dinner which 
he considered the best he had ever had. Courtesy alone 
would have held Gilbert, and soon he had forgotten the 
piano and was staggering along with the Colonel through 
the heaping snows of a Montana blizzard. It was a 
long story and the veteran, looking beyond Gilbert to 
the door, added many details and side incidents to make 
it longer. 

Afterwards, Billy reappeared with an almost suspicious 
indifference, and the Colonel turned the conversation to 
him. 

“ Glory,” he remarked, “is a good deal like women. 
Ye chase it continuous till ye’ve lost all yer self-respect, 
an’ when ye catch it y’ain’t got any more use fer it.” 

“More chasing than catching,” laughed Billy, who 
seemed restless and who watched the hallway constantly. 
“What’s this, Colonel, reminiscence?” 

Colonel Mead smiled benevolently. 

“Lord, no, I’m jest talkin’ gen’rilly, like a collidge 
prifesser. It don’t actooly mean anythin’.” 

“What is a college professor, Colonel, in your phi- 
losophy?” asked Billy, eager to keep the conversation 
going. 

“A collidge prifesser,” Colonel Mead paused reflectively, 
“is a tenderfoot, thet spends some o’ his valooble time 
tellin’ a bunch o’ boys why somethin’ ought to be what. 
He’s wasted a number o’ years tryin’ to guess the answer, 
an’ o’ course, they take his word fer it. Ef they don’t, 


m 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


I reckon he makes ’em all sit up nights till they do. 
Then he puts on his goggles an’ he looks at the hull 
nation, ez ef we all wore caps on the backs of our heads 
an' went to school in his class. ‘The Phillipians ought 
to be free/ he sez, ‘an’ we ought to hev free trade an’ the 
labor unions ought to run the country. 7 An’ when some 
of us don’t agree with him, he jest natch’rally puts a black 
mark down in his book an’ sez thet the country is goin’ 
to the dogs. Bymby he gits so many the’ries twisted in 
his mind thet he either goes into the daffy house er be- 
comes what they call a Socialist — which is next door with 
a hole cut in the wall between.” 

Billy had unaccountably hurried out into the hall in 
the midst of the Colonel’s talk. The mention of “labor 
unions” was a bugle call to Mr. McNish to mount his 
hobby horse and fight, but he was interrupted. 

“Jack,” called Billy from the front door. “Someone 
here wants to see you.” 

Mr. McNish broke off short and caught one of Gilbert’s 
arms; the Colonel seized the other and, before he could 
cry a protest, they were leading him out into the hall, 
where Billy was awaiting them, and on to the porch, 
where Gilbert hung back suddenly and looked plaintively 
from one to the other, gripping their arms convulsively. 

“What’s this?” he asked, dazed, as they beamed back 
at him and urged him forward. Then he heard his name 
called and he heard, as well, a low murmur that grew into 
the loudest cheers that had ever been heard in Hamp- 
stead, and something seize4 his throat, and he swallowed 
with difficulty and tried to smile. 

It seemed as if the entire town was there. Before him 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 403 


they filled the broad lawn and walks, and overflowed into 
the street, choking it so tightly that every stray team 
that tried to pass was added to the waiting crowd. Half- 
a-dozen street cars stood in their midst, and groups of 
the more venturesome had climbed to the roofs, while 
others helped the road employees stamp resounding 
strokes upon the car gong, to add to the volume of the 
cheering. Down the street they reached nearly to the 
corner. They spread out over the Hardy lawn next 
door and packed the front porch, while small boys hung 
upon the slanting porch roof. Others had “shinned” up 
every pole or post in sight, and clung tightly in vertical 
lines, waving their caps with conscious pride. When 
Gilbert appeared the Hampstead City Band, out of sight 
between the swaying, shouting people and the veranda, 
struck up “Hail the Conquering Hero Comes,” and, as if 
in answer, from the silent city below came the shriek of 
the whistle of Hardy & Son. Pandemonium broke loose; 
arms waved, handkerchiefs fluttered, and little children, 
perched upon their fathers’ shoulders, shook their chubby 
hands and crowed with joy. Mr. McNish and the Colonel, 
their faces red with exertion, led the cheering with their 
free hands, Colonel Mead dancing up and down with 
such careless vigor that Gilbert instinctively moved away 
from him to save his sound foot. For many minutes the 
band blared, the whistle blew, the gongs rang and the 
hill shook with the steady cheers, and many a sleeve in 
the mass of Hardy & Son employees, who stood at the 
front, was brushed shamelessly across wet eyes, while 
women laughed hysterically in their midst. Billy, stand- 
ing behind Gilbert, shouted ecstatically with the rest, 


404 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


At last, when the band had surrendered and the whistle 
had stopped and the cheers grew hoarse and intermittent, 
Billy saw Gilshannon looking at him and smiling cynically. 

“ Great !” he shouted in the newspaper man’s ear. 

“ They’re a fickle bunch,” answered the reporter. “A 
little while -ago they’d howled him down just as hard. 
Where will they stand to-morrow? They make me sick.” 

Gradually the cheering straggled off to the far edges 
of the crowd, where a few men, discovering at last that 
they were shouting alone, stopped and flushed and 
laughed good-naturedly, as they stood on tiptoe and 
peered at the little group on the veranda far away. There 
the Colonel was regaining his dignity as rapidly as pos- 
sible. He was nervously sorting papers and envelopes 
which he drew from his bulging pocket. This task com- 
pleted, he conferred with Mr. McNish over Gilbert’s shoul- 
der. Then, stepping away from them, he faced Gilbert 
and began to speak in a voice that was frayed to a mere 
whisper with shouting. He told Gilbert all that they 
had been keeping from him during his convalescence; 
how Hardy & Son had been reorganized; how Mr. Hub- 
bard and his three associates, wishing to make their 
peace with the people of Hampstead — since each of them 
had large properties in the city which must be operated 
— had, after correspondence and conferences, offered their 
Hardy stock for sale; how the citizens of Hampstead had 
subscribed for all the stock which the surplus would not 
buy; how the new stockholders had held a meeting and 
elected a new board of directors of which he was a mem- 
ber; and how the new directors had elected him secretary 
and treasurer of the company. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 405 


Gilbert threw back his shoulders quickly at the last 
announcement. 

“That's impossible/’ he said firmly, although his voice 
trembled. “Mr. Hardy ” 

A hand on his arm interrupted him, and he turned to 
look squarely in the face of Samuel Hardy himself, pale, 
emaciated, crouched back in an invalid’s chair. “The 
old man” grinned up at him weakly/and their hands 
met and clasped. 

“It’s all right, Jack. We had the directors’ meeting 
in my house, and it was unanimous.” 

The crowd on the lawn had not heard a word, but a 
deafening din of applause arose as they saw the two 
men meet, and the people beyond, who could not even 
see, took up the shout good-humoredly. Gilbert’s eyes, 
glancing beyond Mr. Hardy, saw his mother turn away 
suddenly as if to hide something of which she was ashamed, 
and he caught a glimpse beyond her of a mass of waving 
black hair and black eyes beneath, wet with tears. Then 
someone came in between and he faced the lawn once 
more. 

Gilshannon, his cynicism changed temporarily to merry 
egotism, — the simplest transformation for cynics, — ap- 
peared on the steps after a conference with the men at 
the front, and handed Gilbert a heavy seal ring from the 
men, “a magic ring that gives you power over a thousand 
men and more, men you’re proud to have back of you, 
sir, and men who’re proud you want them.” And with 
the ring in an envelope, was Gilbert’s union card. Gil- 
shannon had been editor of the News since the day after 
election, and he was as popular as ever. The people 


406 THE BALANCE OF POWER 

cheered him lustily as he stepped aside, and his face had 
lost its cynical smile and beamed with unrestrained 
pleasure. 

Very few heard what Gilbert said in reply, but those 
who did, understood the earnestness that was behind his 
few halting words. 

“You make me proud,” he said slowly, “and I don’t 
want to be proud. I only want what I earn, and I haven’t 
earned all this.” He hesitated. “It’s just as right, I 
guess, for men to make other people square and honest 
with them, as it is for them to be square and honest them- 
selves. It’s just as right to make the law respect us as 
it is to respect the law.” Again he hesitated and cleared 
his throat. “The thing that has been done has been 
done. It was worth doing. We’ve got a new govern- 
ment, and a new mayor who’s square.” He caught Billy’s 
arm and linked his own within it. “We’ve got a new 
Hardy & Son and we’re all going to be square down 
there. This union card means a lot to me. And — just 
because a few men haven’t been on the level isn’t any 
reason why we should lose faith in each other or the city 
or the state or the country. It’s just given us a new 
start, that’s all.” 

As he finished and limped, his hands outstretched, into 
their midst, Billy raised himself upon his toes and shouted: 
“All for one; one for all.” The men near by took up the 
cry. It ran down the long lines until the whole army 
chanted it, and it echoed across the city below to the hills 
beyond, the shout of the united citizens of Hampstead 
as it had been that of the Guardsmen of old. 

And, curiously enough, the first hands that reached 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


407 


John Gilbert’s were those of two men and a boy, who 
stood in the front row of the crowd that surged toward 
him. 

“ Hurrah!” reiterated Peter Lumpkin, dancing up and 
down and wiping his eyes with the back of his free hand. 

“ Ye’re de goods,” declared Jimmy O’Rourke with 
dignity. 

Joe Heffler said nothing. He gripped the extended 
hand, and held it until he could pass it on to that of the 
blonde, smiling girl who had once been Gerty Smith. 

The band broke in with “ Marching Through Georgia,” 
and the crowds began to disperse, keeping step in spite 
of themselves to the music. The waiting cars filled 
rapidly and went clanging noisily down-town ; but many 
people crowded nearer to the veranda, where ever-chang- 
ing groups surrounded Gilbert and where, on the steps, 
Mr. McNish, his hat off and his gray hair blowing in the 
mild breeze, was singing along with hundreds of others 
the swinging, stirring chorus that his comrades had sung 
as they marched to the sea forty years before. And 
many, far down the street, stopped and listened and 
joined in, in detached groups, or sang it alone under their 
breath and felt an added lift at their hearts. 

About Gilbert they were struggling to reach and shake 
his hand. 

“ We’ll sind ye to Congress next year,” cried little 
Moriarty, with what the Register characterized next day 
as “Napoleonic calm in the midst of the tempestuous 
excitement.” 

“No, you won’t,” retorted Gilbert. “I’m going to 
stay right here. It’s home and it’s good enough for me.” 


408 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“ Mister Gilbert,” old Michael was puffing noisily, after 
having pushed his way to the front, “Oi’ve gave up 
socialism. Sure, Oi’m a Gilbertist now.” 

The band picked up its instruments and scattered down 
the lawn, happy in its new uniforms and in the awed 
gaze of the bystanders. Slowly those who remained 
about Gilbert followed them, Mr. Butterson and Mr. 
Tubb, the bitter rivals in groceries, going off arm in arm, 
and Judge Morrison with Mr. Neely, who had come to 
look upon himself as a hero who had helped the cause 
by his confession. From far down the street Mr. Lump- 
kin’s megaphonic voice could still be heard chanting the 
chorus of “Marching Through Georgia.” 

Gilbert, suddenly realizing that he was tired, found 
Billy waiting at his elbow. 

“I just saw somebody go out into the garden, Jack,” 
he said quietly. “Somebody who planned nearly every- 
thing that happened to-day.” 

The two friends looked at each other steadily. 

“I’d go out there,” Billy added slowly, with a quaint 
smile, “if I were you.” 

Gilbert put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and 
together they went up the steps. 

“All right, Billy,” was all Gilbert said, but Billy was 
satisfied. 

Within, the Colonel and Mrs. Gilbert, still aglow with 
the success of their surprise party, were hushed suddenly 
as they watched him limp past them. His eyes, fixed 
straight ahead, did not see them as they sat in the 
corner. 

“And I always thought he had it in him to be a pro- 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 


409 


fessor or a doctor or something like that,” said his mother, 
thoughtfully. 

“'Tain't what a man's got in hisself that counts, it's 
what he gits out o' hisself. Ye see, ma'am, he's got the 
perseverance of a puppy at a root.” 

Mrs. Gilbert nodded. 

“ That's the Scotch in him,” she remarked proudly. 
“‘It's well for a Scotchman to be right,' my mother 
used to say, ‘for if he’s wrong he’s ever and eternally 
wrong. ' ” 

“Thar's a lot o' things thet ain't right in this coun- 
try,” nodded the Colonel soberly, “but it ain't the'ries 
thet're goin' to make 'em right. It’s men with level 
heads like his, an’ level consciences like his. An' one 
man like him does more good’n the long run, than a 
dozen the'ries does harm.” 

She was sitting on the low bench under the old apple 
tree when she heard the crunch of his cane in the late 
afternoon silence. She saw him, the next instant, emerge 
from behind the bushes and come laboriously down the 
pathway toward her. Pulling her long coat about her, 
she rose to her feet quickly, suddenly breathless and 
feeling an instinctive desire to run away. He had seen 
her, however, and he was hurrying pitifully. A great 
wave of tenderness swept her heart as she stood still, 
watching him; him, her great man among men, the mas- 
ter of her world, stumping along with a cane, his clothes 
hanging loose on the great frame which illness had left 
gaunt and spare. Instinctively she looked for the scar, 
and she saw the jagged red line of it across the broad 


410 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


forehead. She started impetuously to meet him, and 
then, remembering, she faltered and waited. 

“Pve found you at last,” he cried, coming up before 
her. She nodded, smiling, for she could think of nothing 
to say. The bright light in his eyes warned her of impend- 
ing happiness and she trembled. A sudden ecstasy of 
fear flashed over her. Always before he had been calm, 
quiet, a force under strong control. Now he had thrown 
off his bonds, and she seemed to feel the throb of his 
unrestrained passion, that, magnet-like, drew her as she 
never had been drawn before. 

“I’ve found you at last. Where have you been, Clare 
Hardy? I’ve caught glimpses of you. I’ve heard you. 
I’ve reached out for you in the dark, but you were never 
there. Did you think that I could get along without 
you? I can’t. I’ve tried and I can’t. It’s too strong 
for me. No,” he cried in quick command, for she turned 
and hid her face from him. 

He caught one of her arms and then, throwing his 
cane away, the other, and made her face him. “You 
can’t run away again,” he said fiercely. 

For a second they stood so. Then the old tantalizing 
smile glinted up at him through tears. 

“I don’t believe — I want to run away, Jack.” 

And then the wonderful thing happened. The grizzled 
old apple tree seemed to wait in awed silence, listening, 
watching. Then it laughed above them in the breeze, 
and laughed again for joy of what it had seen and heard. 
Soon it was quiet again as they moved to the bench, 
the man leaning on her arm for the support she begged 
to give. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 411 


“’Why did you run away at all, Clare?” 

“A woman’s pride, dear, that’s all. I wanted you 
to come to me — and you came.” 

“And if I hadn’t?” 

“ But you did.” 

This was uncontrovertible and he kissed her again 
tenderly, entirely content. 

“Is it all real, Clare? Is it all real?” 

“I was just wondering myself.” 

“Do you know, sometimes when I was off my head 
back there a month ago, before the world began, I’d 
remember you for a while and then there wouldn’t be 
any you at all. It was awful.” 

“You’ll never forget me again, Jack?” 

He drew her to him and they sat, leaning forward, 
peering together into the glad world. 

“And it isn’t Billy after all.” 

“ I think it was always you, dear.” 

“He told me you were here.” 

“Dear Billy.” 

“Good old Billy.” 

“ Did you think of me, Jack, to-day, out there? I 
was very proud and a little afraid. You seemed to 
belong to all of them and I wanted you all to myself.” 

“But you planned it all.” 

“Billy and I.” 

And suddenly they both saw before them on the 
shriveled grass the shadows of three children playing, 
and they were both silent. 

“And your father?” he said at last. “What will he 
say?” 


412 THE BALANCE OF POWER 


“I wish you could have heard what he said yesterday. 
I kissed him for it afterwards.” 

Sometime later she left him to find his cane. When 
she returned there was a sober look on his face. 

He had taken a torn strip of something from his pocket, 
something blue and worn and soiled. 

“Why did you write this, Clare?” he asked. “I car- 
ried the whole thing home that night. And then, after- 
wards, I tore this off and Fve carried it ever since.” 

She took the piece of the old blotter from his hand 
and read her own words. 

“Do you remember, Jack,” she said softly, “how 
you told me once that father held the balance of power? 
He didn’t. You held it all the time, the real balance of 
power. You held it with me and you ” 

She never finished, for his arms were around her, crush- 
ing her to him, and his lips pressed tightly upon hers. 

“Such power,” she whispered when her lips were free, 
her head sunk upon his shoulder. “Such wonderful, — 
sweet, — maddening power. Oh, Jack,” she sobbed against 
his coat. 

Slowly they walked down the darkening paths, and 
the dim light dazzled their eyes with its brilliancy and 
the bare boughs seemed to bloom about them. 

“God’s bigger out here,” she said reverently, and he 
remembered, as he looked at the great house where a 
few lights were already glimmering. And his mother, 
sitting quietly in the old library with the Colonel and 
Mr. McNish, remembered too, with that inward peace 
of those who, believing that all things mean good, see 
beyond the narrowing years. 


THE BALANCE OF POWER 413 


“ Where’s Billy?” cried Gilbert, bursting in upon them. 

But Billy at that moment stood on the road to Tare- 
ville, watching the fading light in the west. 

Ui Bless your souls,’ I’ll say to them,” he assured him- 
self, smiling as he meant to smile when he should meet 
them. ‘“I’ll take care of you both.’ Perhaps,” he 
added, staring down the deserted road, “my confounded 
trick of play-acting is of some use after all.” 
























































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